


What Makes a Man

by Capucine



Category: DCU, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Amputation, Castration, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Whump, onesided feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-04-18 17:18:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4714121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capucine/pseuds/Capucine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arsenal is taken along with Nightwing and Superboy to get back at League members. He survives the torture, but will he survive the aftermath?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is loosely based on Young Justice canon. I hope you enjoy it. Expect shippy things and more characters as time goes on.

He wasn't sure how many members of Young Justice got captured anyway.

All Arsenal knew was that he woke up hanging upside down, and he was _missing his fucking arm._

But whoever had captured him had thought well, because his other arm was knotted to a rope of some kind tied tightly around his waist.

As soon as he woke up, he began to fight his bonds, having a bit of a panic. Was he captured again? Was he going to be frozen, or lose his life all over? Was he going to be utterly _trapped_

He must have been bouncing like a fish on a string, because he heard laughter at the same time as he heard Nightwing's,

“Arsenal, calm down, take a deep breath.”

Arsenal looked around wildly, as deep breaths just weren't coming. The source of the laughter was a man, dressed in a white suit. He held a cane in his hands, an obnoxious golden lion's head on the end, and he slowly advanced towards Arsenal.

“So. This is the real Speedy, isn't it?” The man said with a sneer. “Or should I say, the real Roy Harper.”

“Not my name!” Arsenal snapped, jerked his bound arm forward and only hurting himself. He bounced again on the end of the rope; it was dizzying.

Nightwing's voice came through, saying, “I know who you are. Some supervillain wannabe, formerly in the wings at Lex Corp. What do you want with us?”

Us. Did that mean Nightwing, who Arsenal couldn't see, and Arsenal himself? Or were there more unfortunates?

But Lex Corp. Arsenal's blood ran a little colder. 

The man, a tall and thick sort of lump of a man, said, “I'm going to show the world that I am a criminal mastermind.” He had a kind of muffly voice, as though one of his lips was numb. He was too close to Arsenal, and Arsenal would have totally attacked him by now if he could.

“Is that it? That's stupid,” Arsenal snapped, another rage-filled wriggling at the end of his line surely making him look ridiculous.

God, he wanted to be free.

The man continued, “I will do it by breaking some of the League's most precious progeny.”

That made Arsenal laugh, the sound a little desperate. “What about me makes you think _precious_ , idiot?”

Nightwing also said, nonchalantly, “You've chosen the wrong people to try to break. I am least likely, followed by Superboy here. Besides which, when he wakes up, he's going to kill you.”

The man gave an almost gentle smile. “Oh, but you see, if I can break the two of you... it should be no issue. I should prove I am a fantastic mind-manipulator.”

“Well, then, why exactly am I here? I wasn't even with them!” Arsenal demanded, and he could already feel a bead of sweat on his brow. That was stupid. Nothing had even happened to him yet.

“It's okay, Arsenal,” came Nightwing's calming tone, but Arsenal refused to be calmed.

“Listen, you crazy fuck, when I get out of this--”

“Oh, you're not going to,” the man said simply, “You're the test run. You might even die.”

Nightwing must have been bound hand and foot. Arsenal was putting this together in his mind, trying to think of what the situation was while his brain buzzed like a hive of bees. If Nightwing thought that Superboy would kill this guy, then hopefully that meant Superboy was ill-restrained. If that was the case, Superboy would save them when he woke up.

Yech. Arsenal did not like the idea of being beholden to anyone.

“Well, to be honest, it is also somewhat personal. I couldn't find Red Arrow, and after what Green Arrow did to me... I thought it would be delightfully personal to dig into _Oliver Queen_ this way.” The man gave another smile.

Arsenal got the impression he was trying to be a cool and collected mastermind, even though he only seeming like an idiotic knitter.

Hm. Maybe Nightwing had a tracking device in his suit or on his person. This idiot would never think of taking such things off.

But at the same time, being a replacement for the clone...? Arsenal was spouting off curses as he fought his bonds again.

“ _Arsenal_ ,” Nightwing said, voice designed to try to calm him down. “Take deep breaths. Take three, count to eight--”

The man laughed. “He'll need more than that when I'm through with him.”

Arsenal growled.

The man turned, heading for a place out of sigh of Arsenal. Presumably, that was the torture thing. Great, just wonderful, he got to be tortured now! 

“Wait. What made you choose Superboy and I?” Nightwing pressed, a distraction tactic.

“I already told you,” the man said simply. The sound of wheels creaking made Arsenal try to visualize what it could be, some rusty cart with medieval style tools, some ugly medical cart, what?

But it came into view.

It was white, and things were piled on it. He was having a hard time making them out from his upside down position, and his head was seriously starting to hurt.

The man drew a long, white knife from the tray, strangely looking like china and yet harder, more sinister. It gleamed as he brought it towards Arsenal.

An infuriating smile danced across his face, sadism clear. “Perhaps we could cut off your other arm, couldn't we?”

“No offense, but you don't look like you have the muscle power to saw through bone!” Arsenal snapped, even as a cold sweat broke out over his body.

“This,” the man said, holding the large knife up, “is an amazing invention of mine.” He flicked the tip along the side of Arsenal's face, and it had him cursing, because _goddamnit that hurt_.

The man smiled at his own apparent genius. “You see, this invention of mine cuts through anything with ease, extreme ease. And you know what else? It stops any blood loss or other losses.”

Arsenal realized his cheek was not bleeding. At all.

Still, he snapped, “That the best you got? A knife?”

“How does it work?” Nightwing said, and there was no apparent sign of fear in his voice, but all the same, Arsenal was pretty sure he was worried.

“Instantly seals it all off, and is made of, or modeled off of, rather, an alien compound. I would share more with you, but you're trying to distract me,” the man said with a patronizing smile towards Nightwing. He was starting to get into this evil mastermind thing.

Arsenal jerked his arm again; still, the loop around his waist did not fucking move.

“So, where shall we start, Roy? Which part do you think your mentor would miss the most?”

“He's not my damn mentor!” Arsenal snapped, wishing he had something to hit the man with, because damnit the man deserved a good beating. Maybe he was saying that partly because of the way his arm tingled, the way he felt like he would be separated from this one too.

“Green Arrow doesn't care about Arsenal,” Nightwing said, “You're really not going to hurt him this way.”

It stung, but Arsenal was smart enough to know Nightwing was trying to protect him. “Yeah. I was barely with the guy a year before being a fucking popsicle.”

Abruptly, the knife sunk into his gut, and he let out a scream—just cause he wasn't bleeding didn't mean it didn't hurt. He must have been writhing on the end of his line horribly.

But the man just pulled out the knife again, examining the spot. “Mm. Good, it works on internal organs.”

Arsenal was taking shuddering breaths now. His whole abdomen was screaming in pain, and he just really wanted to get the fuck off this line and onto his feet where he would beat up this pasty doughboy.

“Hey... the hell's going on?”

Superboy had come around. There was a loud clanking noise.

The man smiled past Arsenal at Superboy. “Ah, you've decided to join us. I hope you like your accomodations; I stole it directly from Lex Corp.”

Shit. That meant it might work.

“Now, I tire of wasting my time...” the man said with a sigh, and he looked over at Nightwing. “What do the pair of you decide, arm amputation...” A decidedly sadistic smirk crept onto his face, “Or castration?”

“Neither, fucking neither!” Arsenal shouted, struggling again. A sort of panic was taking him over; he had no way of getting out of this situation, and the prospect of losing either his genitals or his only fucking arm was a lot more frightening than Arsenal was willing to admit aloud, though the way his whole body thrashed in its bonds must have made it obvious.

“I can't make that kind of decision,” Nightwing said firmly, “Let him go. He's a fifteen year old boy--”

“If you're going by technicalities, he is older,” the man said, and _god god god_ the blade rested on Arsenal's crotch, stilling him, as the man said, “It will be a shame to never have had sex. On the upside, it may cure your anger issues.”

“You want to see anger issues?” This came growled from Superboy, and there was a loud clank as he must have strained against his bonds. “Cut anything off him, and I will kill you.”

Arsenal might have been touched had he not been completely terrified.

“You can believe I won't be forgiving either,” Nightwing said, though with less rage than Superboy.

But the knife positioned itself against his arm, his only full arm left, he could already feel the edge breaking the skin from how sharp it was. And it was a very high spot, just below the shoulder joint.

“You are not in a position to hurt me,” the man said, with an evil little smile.

Instinctively, Arsenal swung his stub at his aggressor, and yes, he did manage to _touch_ him, but touch was so far from _hurt_ it wasn't even funny. The knife started to cut, and panic went through him like a lightning bolt.

“Please! Not my arm!” he pleaded, shivers going through his body. He fucking needed that. He needed it, what was he supposed to be, the double-amputee boy wonder?

This only brought a sadistic smirk on the man's face. With barely a word, the knife went all the way through.

If anything else happened, Arsenal didn't know. His world was white-hot pain, searing through every nerve in his body and making him writhe in pain.

By the time he could hear himself, he was sobbing and screaming alternately, breaths not coming easily.

He barely registered the agonized tears slipping down his forehead.

Superboy's shouting came through the static of pain, obviously going on about the ways he was going to murder this man. He could barely make out Nightwing's growl as well.

Arsenal's body jerked, even when he tried to stop it.

He could see his own fucking arm hanging in his face, still tied to his waist. This brought on a new round of hyperventilation, even as his stub throbbed in a way that took all focus off of everything else.

Then the arm fell, as the rope was cut.

“See? No death,” came the smug announcement.

Arsenal let out a gasping sob. He couldn't help it, couldn't summon words.

His body still jerked.

“Arsenal, breathe, you're going to go into shock--” Nightwing was saying.

“I don't doubt the next one will kill him, the pain alone,” came the announcement from the man. “You may not lose a drop of blood, but the pain will get to you, and won't that be a fitting end, one you could've technically survived from?”

“Fuck you!” Arsenal managed, still feeling spasms of pain.

That brought a small laugh from the man. “If I were so inclined, I'd fuck you. I'm sure that would hurt Green Arrow more than simply maiming you. But, let's face it, I'd have to cut off your legs too to get at _that_ without being hurt, and, mm, that's outside the plan.”

“Cut him again, and I will--” Superboy was cut off.

“If you haven't been able to break free at _this_ , I highly doubt you can break free now.”

The knife cut through his clothes-- all of them.

Despite it all, Arsenal could feel the humiliation of being naked in front of his teammates. His face was flushed red, not that they could see it, and he tried not to jerk around. He glared at the man, saying, “I'm going to kill you. I don't know how yet, but you're going to d--” he froze, “Get your hands off of there!”

The man's hands were undeniably on his genitals, a touch that was as horrifying as it was invasive.

“Hm. Not that big,” the man said, as if he needed to add insult to injury. “Still, if your arm was no issue...”

“Nonononono,” Arsenal managed, voice hitting a high, terrified squeak. God, he hated how he sounded. He was back to hyperventilating, shivering from both pain and fear.

God, he had never wished for Green Arrow to be on the scene more than now. Green Arrow, as much of an idiotic bastard as he was, would never allow this to happen.

He got a chuckle in response. “Well, we'll have to see if you can survive the pain, hm?”

“Wait!” Nightwing shouted, “You still haven't told us your name.”

“You know who I am, Nightwing,” the man said flatly, “And I don't need a supervillain moniker. Not yet. I will come up with one when I am done with the three of you.”

“That's poor planning,” Superboy growled, the undercurrent of pure fury obvious to anyone.

“Stop trying to distract me,” the man said again. “You can't possibly rile me up.”

“Please,” Arsenal said, “I haven't even—I never--”

“I know. Perpetual virgin,” the man said with a smile, “And wouldn't that be humorous, compared to the... _amorous_ Oliver Queen? Wouldn't that be a low blow?”

“He doesn't give a fuck about me! He's not going to care!” Arsenal snapped, tears coming to his eyes unbidden.

He would _almost_ never admit how utterly terrified he was.

The knife sliced through too fast to comprehend. He was in a world of agony, unaware of anything except the massive pain that threatened to overwhelm his mind and leave him a screaming mess.

That was when there was a massive sound.

He didn't know what to make of it, the writhing, white-hot pain taking over much of his senses.

But within five minutes, he suddenly plummeted towards the floor, only caught by human arms. 

He was still screaming, he could register that much, and he thrashed in the human's arms. He was held tightly anyway, with a voice trying to cut through.

“Roy... Roy, it's Nightwing, breathe, please breathe...” 

He could see Nightwing's face, and with a strangled sob, buried his face in his chest. He didn't have his arm, _he didn't have his arm_ so he couldn't grab on, and this brought on another, horrifying round of being unable to breathe.

“I'll take him,” came Superboy's voice, “We'd better get out of here.”

He was passed, unwillingly, rather wanting to stay with Nightwing.

He must have cursed out Superboy in every language he knew, but that didn't stop the firm grip as he was jolted along.

That was about when he passed out.

–

Waking up in the hospital should have been a comfort. Well, maybe in some people's worlds.

Arsenal screamed promptly, ripping out his IV as he tore out of bed. There was no in-between, hazy stage, instead a wild run towards the window.

But the window was locked, and it hit Arsenal as his hand reached for it—his arm was here. He had his arm, even though it hurt like fucking hell to use it. He flexed his fingers experimentally.

He could already tell he was still missing nether parts.

His rapidly beating heart cursed whoever gave him back his arm but not that. Still, despite the way his arm protested, he managed to lift a chair, heading for the window.

“Wait, Roy.”

Nightwing stood in the doorway, not actively stopping him, but the tone suggesting he put down the chair before he did.

Arsenal didn't. “I'm getting the fuck out of here. Leave me alone or I'll go through you.”

Nightwing approached slowly, hands held out. “Let's take a deep breath, okay? You're too high up to go through that window. You will die, Roy.”

Arsenal looked out the window again. Damnit, Nightwing was right. He set down the chair abruptly, but still kept space between the two of them.

Nightwing approached more, but Arsenal flinched violently when he put his hands on his shoulders. “You can trust me. You know that,” Nightwing said gently, warm touch a balm that Arsenal wished could last forever.

“I can't trust anyone,” Arsenal growled, but he didn't break away.

Nightwing steered him towards the bed. “I'm... I'm really sorry.”

Arsenal glared, aware he was on medication to take away pain, but still feeling the throb from his groin. He stopped by the edge of the bed.

“We did everything we could to reattach. We were successful with your arm,” Nightwing said softly.

“No shit, you think I'm not noticing being a fucking _e-eunuch_?!” Arsenal shouted, and he couldn't help it, there were tears in his eyes, ones that he wished would be covered by a mask. He couldn't look at Nightwing.

Nightwing was quiet a moment. “I know this is very hard, and I'm not saying you need to accept this overnight. I'm going to be here for you, okay? As is the League, and Green--”

“Green Arrow had better not show his fucking face here!” Arsenal shouted, and abruptly his knees went weak, as though the emotional turmoil was knocking him off his feet.

Nightwing caught him, and easily lifted him to a bridal position. He gently put him back in the bed. “Green Arrow cares about you, but if you don't want him here, I will tell the others.”

A humiliating feeling washed over Arsenal. “Oh god, oh god... they all _know_ , don't they?”

Nightwing sighed. “Not everyone knows. Um, Green Arrow, Superboy and I, Superman, Batman, and a few others are aware of what's happened to you. The League needed to know--”

“No they fucking didn't, oh god...” Arsenal covered his face with his hand, the sort of humiliation that gave you a white face instead of red clear there. He couldn't help it; as much as he wanted to keep it together in front of Nightwing, he let out a sob.

Nightwing was silent a moment as the crying intensified. That was when he diverted from a Batman path and back onto a Nightwing one—he put his arms around Arsenal, drawing him close. “It's going to be okay.”

“No, no it's fucking not,” Arsenal sobbed, curling into the warm touch. It was pretty much the only comfort he had at the moment, a despair settling in at his gut.

Nothing was going to be the same, as hard as this 'normal' had been to get to.

He clung to Nightwing for a long time, until the drugs knocked him out again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arsenal hates hospitals.

Arsenal was curled in bed, ignoring the pain that was all too present and shutting his eyes.

He'd never get past this stage of being hostage bait, would he? _Someone_ would always come after him, always lay their hands on him and hurt him. If it wasn't Lex Luthor, it was this guy; if it wasn't this guy, it would be another.

His arm ached, and he longed for the security of his robotic arm. They either hadn't found it, or hadn't returned it yet. Probably something about being a 'risk' or some bullshit like that.

“Hey.” The voice had similar harsh cadences to his own, and Arsenal didn't have to look up to know it was Red Arrow.

At least it wasn't fucking Ollie.

He didn't reply, determined not to look up and at his all-too-complete clone.

Red Arrow had the decency to at least sound uncomfortable, sitting in a chair opposite his bed. “I, uh, heard what happened.”

“Oh, good. I wanted everyone to know,” Arsenal growled, still not looking at Red Arrow.

“Look, I'm not here to make you feel worse. I just want you to know that, uh, I'm here for you. We're... sort of like brothers. Family. And I want to look out for you,” Red Arrow said.

Arsenal looked at him; he wasn't wearing his costume or mask, though the differing haircuts and ages kept them looking separate.

He'd never truly been able to hate Red Arrow. While he was impulsive and rash as fuck, Arsenal had recognized immediately that none of it was Red Arrow's fault. He hadn't asked to be created any more than Arsenal had asked to be taken.

“...yeah.” Arsenal muttered, quite glad for the sheet that covered his body. His gown was not as covering as he would like, because they couldn't allow him to wear the pants quite yet with his injury. He gritted his teeth thinking of it.

Red Arrow leaned forward in his seat, that uncomfortable look on his face, but a lot more maturity than Arsenal would have had had their positions been reversed. “I can't imagine what you're going through. Uh, Black Canary said you'd probably be going through stages of grief, and that you'd need a lot of support.”

Arsenal narrowed his eyes. “Oh, she knows too? Why don't you just fucking tell everyone?”

“ _I_ didn't tell her,” Red Arrow said sharply, then he sighed, as if apologetic for the tone.

It only made an unease boil in Arsenal's gut. _No_. They didn't get to treat him differently now.

“Hey. Yeah, don't you dare look like that at me!” Arsenal snapped, sitting up in bed and wincing as he did so. “I am not some victim here!”

The look that Red Arrow gave back was infuriatingly pitying—an attempt at not looking like he pitied him was not good enough to hide it. “I know, Roy. I know.”

Arsenal wanted to break things. He wished he had his arm, because he wanted to shoot something. Maybe that was why they hadn't given it back to him yet. Fuck them.

He twisted around in bed, punching his pillow. “Shut up! I'm fine!”

Red Arrow was quiet a moment, and Arsenal could feel his eyes on the back of his head. “I know you're hurting. When you need me, call me, okay? You know how to reach me.”

Arsenal didn't reply, curled the other way and not looking at Red Arrow.

He heard the door close, and buried his face in his pillow, screaming into it. It did nothing to fight the groggy pain meds and throbbing pain throughout his body, but it made him feel a little bit like he had control.

But he didn't. He didn't have any control.

He stayed curled up until he fell asleep again, pain meds a sleep-inducing sort of fog.

–

He hadn't been able to stay three days in the hospital. He _hated_ hospitals with a passion, something perhaps the others hadn't counted on.

By the third day, he'd managed to remove the IV without bleeding out, wrapped a bandage around, and headed for the hallway. He'd felt uncomfortable with his ass on full view, and tried to cover it whenever he could, but he only had one arm and he had to use it for other things.

It sent creepy-crawlies all over his skin to feel exposed, but he sneaked his way out of the hospital anyway.

It was a small matter to find a Green Arrow hideout. By now, he knew where they were from extensive research on his former mentor. Ollie was not the best at hiding, at least in Arsenal's opinion.

There were civvies in the hideout, and he slipped them on, though they were a little baggy. They weren't his old clothes, after all, simply Green Arrow's.

Jeans and a sweatshirt worked well, and he bundled up the sleeve for his stub. He wasn't fond of flapping sleeves. His working arm still hurt like hell, and he knew it would all hurt worse once the pain meds completely wore off, but like hell he was going back.

He left behind the hospital gown, kicking it for good measure. 

Slipping out of the hideout was easy enough too, and he was gone long before anyone caught up with him.

–

It started to occur to him that perhaps, maybe, he needed pain meds more than he thought hours later.

He was hunched over at a dirty diner, trying to ignore the pain in his crotch and arm. God, he could barely move. He felt helpless and stupid, and god, he wanted to kill that bastard, he wanted to kill anyone.

“Hey, you all right?” The waitress, a blonde with some pudge to her, stood over him, concern on her face, but still a guarded look. It wasn't the nicest neighborhood, to say the least.

“'m fine,” Arsenal grunted, hunching more.

“You're not having drug withdrawal or something like that?” she pressed, eyeing his arm and then what must have been his haggard face.

He meant to insist that he was fine, but he let out a small moan, hunching further. He managed words next, saying, “No...”

“I'm calling the cops, or 911,” the waitress sighed, like she'd seen this one too many times.

“No! Please,” Arsenal snapped, but he fell onto his side as he tried to climb out of the booth and stop her from getting to the phone. He pushed against the floor anyway, struggling to try to stand.

Damn it all, how had the pain gotten so strong so fast? He felt like throwing up the cheap pancakes and coffee he'd inhaled.

“Kid, you're obviously in over your head,” the waitress replied, picking up the phone off the wall. It was old-fashioned, with a cord and all.

“I can't go back,” Arsenal muttered from where he was, unable to get up off the floor. He was feeling all kinds of emotions, from the tingling, cold fear, to burning hot anger. 

“To jail? Don't tell me you're some kind of criminal.”

“No, to the hospital!” Arsenal snapped, and he could feel his eyes stinging and _damn it_ he wasn't going to cry in front of some waitress.

“Excuse me, ma'am, I've got it handled from here.”

Arsenal froze. He recognized the voice instantly, of course, but it wasn't one he wanted to hear at all.

“Get the fuck away from me!” he shouted, as Green Arrow came into view.

The waitress hung up the phone.

Oliver, with his damn mustache and his damn look of pity, crouched down next to the Arsenal. “I know you didn't want to see me, but I couldn't ignore when you went missing. Believe it or not, I care about you.”

“Fuck you,” Arsenal growled. He couldn't explain the humiliated feeling at even being seen by Green Arrow. He couldn't quite explain his hatred for the man, pulled into an extreme state at the moment.

Green Arrow crouched still, next to him. His hand started to reach out towards him, but he thought better of it. “Hey, it's going to be okay. I'm not going to hurt you, I'm just going to take you back to the hospital where you can get some pain medications, okay? You're in a lot of pain right now, and--”

“No shit, Sherlock!” Arsenal growled, breaths not exactly coming easily. “I'm not going anywhere with you.”

Green Arrow sighed. “I _really_ didn't want to do this to you. You have to believe me, I didn't.”

“Do what? You'd better not do anything!” Arsenal was already trying to edge away, the pain screaming at him to stay still.

But, much to his horror and extreme discomfort, he was being lifted. Oliver had put him over his shoulder, hand resting alarmingly close to his ass. Granted, Arsenal knew the hold and knew it wasn't intentional, but he was already struggling, screaming.

“Put me down putmedownputmedown!” 

“Sorry, kid,” he heard, and then, he inhaled the scent that his enemies had many times: knockout gas.

His last thought was this: _I will fucking kill him_.

–

He came awake slowly. He could feel the IV in his foot, and he wondered for a moment if they'd exhausted veins in his arm.

Then, he realized with bone-chilling clarity: he was cuffed to the bed. He jerked his arm up, and it moved a little, jerking to a stop as the soft cuff clicked.

He tried to move his feet, and discovered a similar thing. Only his stub was not held down, and that was not helpful anyway.

His heart started to beat fast, his breaths coming quicker. “No... no...” he whimpered through the grog of heavy pain meds. He kept blinking, trying to clear his eyes, but it was like the room wasn't real, the whole thing seemed to swim.

He started jerking harder against the restraints, but his limbs were weak and would break them.

That was when he started screaming, thrashing as best he could in the bed; even his screams were weak, feeble. He felt tiny and vulnerable, like they just left him there to be killed at anyone's leisure. How could he be restrained this way, he couldn't fucking defend himself at all!

The door nearly slammed open. Nightwing appeared, flanked by a doctor.

“Arsenal! Calm down, you're okay!”

But he wasn't okay, he was in a fucking hospital and tied down to the fucking bed and no _he was not fucking okay_.

The doctor was preparing something to attach to his IV, but Nightwing held up a hand, and sat on the bed next to him, propping him up on his lap. “Hey, hey, it's okay... It's okay.”

Arsenal couldn't help it. He sobbed, rattling his arm-manacle helplessly.

“We just don't want you to hurt yourself, or run away again. Roy, we're trying to help you,” Nightwing said, gently brushing his head with his hands. It was like petting an animal, and normally Arsenal might have freaked out completely at such a thing, but in this moment, it was soft and warm.

He was still crying, saying, “Please, please, just let me go, let me go...”

“You can't leave the hospital. Do you understand?” Nightwing's voice was gentle, like he was working with something vulnerable and delicate.

“I have to—I can't stay here, they'll take me! You can't let them do this to me!” Arsenal said hysterically, his eyes seeking Nightwing's, which were hidden behind sunglasses, as always.

“No one's going to take you. We're stationing someone here to protect you all the time; right now, it's my turn,” Nightwing said, not adding how they were probably here to make sure he didn't leave again too.

Arsenal was taking deep breaths now, feeling just a bit safer with Nightwing here. Still, he did not want to be tied down to the bed. “Take them off. I won't run away again.”

Nightwing sighed. “Well, you can't get out the window, and someone's going to be here...”

Arsenal fought rattling the cuffs again, even in his frenzied and drugged up state realizing this would only be incentive to keep him cuffed. “Please.”

“I don't think it's a good idea,” the doctor said, still holding the syringe. “Besides which, I don't want him walking with that IV in his foot.”

Nightwing gave him an apologetic look. “You're heavily drugged; you might hurt yourself.”

“No, no, Nightwing--” Arsenal protested, stomach turning to lead. “Please, you can't!”

“You shouldn't have run away,” the doctor said gruffly.

Nightwing gave a glare of sorts, but he quickly turned his attention back to Arsenal. “I'll be here, okay? I know this is very hard for you--”

Arsenal began screaming again, cursing at Nightwing and rattling his cuffs.

He didn't hear Nightwing give the doctor the signal, but he did feel the chill of something entering his IV, and his screams slurred to a slow whine as he sank into a sedated rest.

“I'm sorry,” he heard, and his eyes shut, too heavy to keep open.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been days. Probably.

Arsenal had been in pain and clouds, sometimes the TV on in the background and voices sounding, even touches sometimes.

He felt like he'd been sleeping through his whole life.

When he finally had the awareness to look around and recognize, actually acknowledge, faces again, he found he was not alone. The clone Roy Harper sat on a chair next to him, in conversation with Dick Grayson.

“I'm surprised it's taking him this long to come out of it. God, it's really fucked up what happened to--”

Dick cut Clone Roy off, saying, “He's awake.”

Arsenal blinked at them. He tried to remember the last few days; it was a haze. He brought his arm up to his chest, and thank god, he could move it. He sat up in the bed slowly, still slightly affected by—drugs. God, they drugged him.

Red Arrow was looking at him with concern. “Roy?”

“Mmf,” he complained, finding his mouth like cotton. He moved his tongue around, trying to get it back to normal, licking his dry lips as well. He moved his limbs too, stretching them out and finding they felt like they hadn't been used in a long time either.

“He seems calmer than I thought he would be,” Red Arrow said, looking over at Nightwing in concern.

“Sedatives haven’t completely worn off yet,” Nightwing replied, coming close to Arsenal. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

“Pissed off as hell,” Arsenal grumbled, anger like a dull knife when he should have had a machete. He slowly turned so his feet were dangling off the edge of the bed. “How... how long have I been out?”

“A week,” Red Arrow supplied, looking highly empathetic. “You... were in a pretty bad state. You’d caused some injuries to yourself when you escaped, and—“

“Fuck you all,” Arsenal grumbled, as he tried to get onto his feet and nearly collided with the floor. Nightwing caught him in time, and seated him back on the bed.

He didn’t have an IV in his foot anymore.

“Roy, you need to understand, we were only trying to let you heal without hurting yourself. You were a danger to yourself and others in this state.” Nightwing sounded like he wanted Arsenal not to hate him, but he wasn’t doing that great of a job.

“I’m going to kill everyone,” Arsenal growled, pushing back on to his feet again. He wobbled, and Red Arrow caught his shoulder this time.

“He doesn’t mean that,” Red Arrow sighed, “He’s just pissed off. To be fair, though, I would be too. It wasn’t really necessary to do this to him for a _week_. And you know his history.”

Nightwing said, a bit sharply, “The League thought it was what was best.”

Red Arrow glared anyway. “Yeah, and you always do what the League says.”

“I’m not you, Roy.”

“Well, if it _had_ been up to me, I’d at least put him somewhere he would feel safe. You know how much he fucking hates hospitals.”

“'He' is right fucking here,” Arsenal snapped, stumbling forward more. To his embarrassment, he was still wearing a typical gown, and he was showing more than he would have liked. “And he would like some fucking pants.”

“I brought you some clothes,” Red Arrow said, and he handed him a pair of particularly soft sweat pants and a hoodie. He also handed him a fresh pack of underwear—also particularly soft.

Arsenal glared, but took the clothes. He managed to fumble them on with his one arm and without showing certain areas to the other two.

“You should know that we'll be taking you back to Mount Justice,” Nightwing said, “We want to keep an eye on you. Green Arrow--”

“Green Arrow can fuck himself,” Arsenal growled, folding up his sleeve. “Also, where the hell is my arm?”

Nightwing and Red Arrow exchanged glances.

“We can't give it to you right now,” Nightwing sighed, and Red Arrow gave him a look.

“You mean the League won't give it back.”

Arsenal punched the wall. It hurt like hell, the entire pain jolting up his arm like a lightning bolt. “I need my arm!”

“You do that again, and you're going back in the restraints,” Nightwing said sharply, “You need to let your arm heal.”

“Don't tell me what I need!” Arsenal shouted back, knuckles smarting. He wanted to kill Nightwing, wanted to take somebody's head off. How about that one guy, the asshole who did this to him? Yeah, that would be nice.

Red Arrow stepped in then, frown on his face but concern in his eyes. “Hey. Roy. I'm with you on this one, it's not right for them to keep your arm, but the only way you're going to get it back is by proving that you're not insane or entirely driven by vengeance.”

“It's _my arm_! They can't keep it, I fucking need it!” Arsenal shouted anyway, mostly directed at Nightwing. He waved his stub at Nightwing, saying, “You know how hard it is to do things with just one fucking arm? You wanna try it?”

“Roy...” Red Arrow sighed.

Nightwing said, “Arsenal, just be glad you're getting out of the hospital. Roy and I are taking you back to Mount Justice today. I don't want to have to make you stay longer, and I know you don't want to stay longer. So, cooperate.”

Arsenal glared, but it was true. He did not want to stay in the hospital. “Can we go, then?”

Nightwing nodded. He walked in front, and Red Arrow walked behind. It gave Arsenal both a sense of security and a sense of being boxed in. Both could easily take him down on their own, especially in this state and without his arm.

He glowered at his feet, cursing his own helplessness. His head still had the slight cobwebs of drugs, some sort of sedatives still lurking in his system. He wanted to break things, smash some of the people who kept looking at him as they passed.

Soon enough, though, they were at the exit of the hospital, as Red Arrow filled out the paperwork—what he could. Arsenal certainly didn't have insurance. He didn't even technically exist as a person. Red Arrow had kinda taken that.

He wasn't mad at Red Arrow, though. He frowned, looking down at his feet. He was not a legal citizen of anywhere, he did not have legal standing of any kind.

He _should_ , given he was the real him, the original anyway, but it wasn't like two guys could share a social security number, and Red Arrow actually fit the age and such he should be.

Arsenal mashed his one hand against his eye. Breathe. Just think about how nice it will be to be on the outside.

Whatever Red Arrow did, they were out in a short while. Nightwing got into the driver's seat of the car, and Red Arrow sort of ushered Arsenal into the backseat. Then, he sat across from him.

“So, Arsenal: you understand you'll be with the team for a while, right? Not really as an active member, but so we can keep an eye on you.”

“Okay, Big Brother. Do I have to participate in Two Minutes' Hate too, or do I get to sit that out?” Arsenal snapped, wincing a little at sitting down. 

Nightwing got this annoyed look to his mouth, and simply drove out of the parking garage.

Red Arrow looked across at Arsenal. “I... honestly wanted you to stay with me. But, you know, they're worried you'll try to kill someone... again.”

“That was justified,” Arsenal grumbled, turning away and looking out the window.

Nightwing made a noise, but Red Arrow allowed, “Be that as it may, you can't just go killing people. Especially not in broad daylight--”

“Not at all, Roy,” Nightwing said irritably.

“Okay, Boss,” Red Arrow said sarcastically. He rolled his eyes, looking over at Arsenal as if to say, 'god, what a tightass, right?'

Arsenal turned back to the window. “If you're going to imprison me, you should know that I know how to get out. And I will not stop trying to get out.”

“It's not a prison, Roy,” Red Arrow said, obviously trying very hard to impart this to him. “It's just a place to recover. You've been a whole hell of a lot, and frankly that makes some of us... worry about you.” He said the last part fast, like he couldn't quite admit it.

Arsenal just stared out the window, watching the landscape pass by. It was mostly the city, dull buildings and signs for food and people walking by in nice clothes that were apparently fashionable and looked just a little alien compared to what Arsenal remembered shortly before his time out of time.

He shut his eyes. That would not happen again. He would sooner die than be trapped again.

The car went into more nature-type areas, and Arsenal relaxed just a little.

He couldn't wait to get out of it.

–

The base was as homey as ever. That is to say, no one was there, thank god. 

Arsenal wasn't sure he could deal with teammates right now. He followed Nightwing into the place, though he obviously knew his way around. Nightwing didn't say a word, as Red Arrow tailed behind.

“So, I guess prison could be worse. At least this one has a TV,” Arsenal muttered.

“Not a prison, Roy,” he could hear Red Arrow sigh behind him.

His room was the first on the hallway. It was also furthest from the exit. He narrowed his eyes, catching on quickly, but didn't say anything.

They walked in, and the room was made up sparsely. It had a bed, with bedding and all that, a dresser, a mirror on the wall... and pretty much nothing else. Not even a window. Well, there was a light, of course, but that was kinda a requirement.

“Very homey,” Arsenal commented.

“I can bring you some stuff,” Red Arrow said, and he gestured towards the dresser. “There's already some clothes in there. We made sure they were--”

“Soft? Yeah, thanks,” Arsenal grumbled, clenching his teeth as he hated, absolutely _hated_ , that anyone knew. At least the team didn't know. He didn't think he could take that. Though, that meant he was going to have to be extremely careful about showers.

He felt a little dizzy just thinking of any of them knowing.

He turned around to see Red Arrow and Nightwing exchanging looks.

“What? I'm not killing anyone right now, am I?” he demanded, glaring at the pair of them. He would not have them doing their talking behind his back, looks like they understood what he was going through because _no one_ could. No one he knew, anyway.

Nightwing said, in a rather condescending way, “Roy, no one's accusing you of anything. Just calm down, okay?”

“I am calm!” Arsenal snapped. He was so fucking calm. He would show Nightwing by calmly breaking his neck.

Red Arrow seemed to pick up on the hostility and said, “How about we get you something to eat? You may have been nourished in the hospital, but you've got to have an appetite, right?”

Arsenal glared at Nightwing, but nodded. He followed Red Arrow into the kitchen; Nightwing had abandoned them.

Red Arrow got him their favorites: chocolate milk, ham-swiss-cheese-yellow-mustard sandwich on potato bread, and a cup of chicken star soup. That was something rather personal, that only their—his, mother had made him when he was sick or upset.

He supposed it was warranted.

He ate fast, feeling like he hadn't had food in a month. Red Arrow just watched him, arms hanging at his sides. He still had that haircut, the one that Arsenal had had to abandon.

Arsenal ate fast, but savored the food. He hadn't exactly been getting his favorites while running around on his own. He especially took the time to inconspicuously swish the chocolate milk in his mouth, getting as much of the flavor as he could.

As he was sipping the soup from the mug, that was when Red Arrow chose to speak.

“None of this is being done to punish you, Roy. I promise I'll make sure that everything goes all right, okay? I'll keep an eye out for you.” 

Arsenal sighed. He was soothed by the food, and just nodded. He didn't entirely agree, but his favorite foods put him in a fairly cooperative mood.

Red Arrow gave him a sort of mirthless smile. “Okay. Remember, you can't leave the base, or they're going to freak out. It won't stay that way, but for now, just obey that rule, okay? And try not to attack anyone.”

“Can't promise anything,” Arsenal said, though without much bite.

Red Arrow gave him a look. That look that said, I may be your clone, but I am not above tanning your hide.

Well, let him try. Arsenal slurped up more soup. “Come on. You expect me to obey their rules? Do you know me?”

Red Arrow apparently had to concede that. “At least try. I don't want to see you go down a nasty spiral, okay?”

“I can try,” Arsenal grumbled, kind of sort of wanting to make Red Arrow proud of him... how twisted was that? But that was Arsenal's life now. His older clone was like a weird big brother.

Yeah. Just drink the soup.

Red Arrow left not too long after that, after making him promise to call him for anything, absolutely anything, he needed.

Arsenal thought he might maybe attempt to give the League's plan a chance.

But then, this thought was before the team returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arsenal references George Orwell's 1984 with the Big Brother and Two Minutes' Hate comment. :) It's a dystopian future classic, written in like, I think just after WWII.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arsenal adjusts to staying with the team--or rather, doesn't.

Arsenal had seen the team members file in; not all of them were there, but they still looked at him weirdly, regardless of number. It was like they knew, but he pushed it down, reminded himself that even if too many people knew, the team did not. Only Nightwing, Clone Roy Harper, and Superboy knew out of anyone even somewhat related to the team, and that secret was safe.

“Hey, Arsenal!” Impulse had said brightly, suddenly across the island countertop where he was sitting and grinning at him. “We all thought you were feeling the mode, but you've crashed the mode!”

Arsenal stared a moment. He hadn't been around Impulse long enough, nor really cared enough, to crack the slang. He was pretty sure that Impulse meant they thought he was a goner or something, and that he was obviously all right now. “...yeah. Sure.”

Blue Beetle came up then, not to see him, but to see Impulse. “Hey, don't bother him too much, he's recovering.”

Arsenal's eyes narrowed, but he reminded himself: Blue Beetle was straight now, not evil as hell and going to make them all be captured by the Reach. He still didn't like him, but he had to try. “Yeah. Leave me alone.”

Impulse's face twisted a little, but it brightened again in a sympathetic smile. “Hey, whatever you need, buddy, let me know! Chicken whizzees, a shake, a very bad rendition of the chicken dance—which by the way, why would anyone invent that--?”

“Thanks,” Arsenal said sharply, cutting him off. He was glaring down at his third cup of chocolate milk (what? He could indulge if he wanted to, they owed him that much, right?), but he took a big sip of it anyway. He didn't swish it like before, not wanting to be caught in the childish habit.

Cassie, aka Wondergirl, showed up at that point, a sympathetic look on her face as stood beside the counter. “Hey. How are you holding up?”

They must have known he was tortured or something. That was all they knew, he reminded himself. “Eh. Been better. My arm is killing me.”

He flexed it, and yes, it hurt, it ached, but that didn't stop him from using it. He remembered he should have two arms, the one that had been gifted to him and his natural one, and his expression darkened, and he took another gulp of chocolate milk, not in a manner unlike someone drinking alcohol to forget their troubles. 

He'd be pretty fucking lucky if he could find alcohol _here_.

She was still looking at him with sympathy. Not total pity, though it still rankled him. “Okay. You need anything, you let me know, okay?”

He could feel the slightest flush on his cheeks, and that was just stupid, she couldn't possibly actually care about him. Well, she had kissed him that one time, but...come on. No one actually liked him, and he should just accept that.

He nearly flinched when she put a hand on his shoulder, the stub side, and it was warm though not particularly soft. She was waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, okay,” he sighed. Maybe he could pretend she cared. Maybe.

At least until he got out.

Cassie gave him a smile. “You're going to be fine, Arsenal. I know you will be. You can get through this.”

He just nodded, and went back to drinking his milk. It tasted good, and that was probably the only good thing going on at the moment. He didn't trust anyone here, not even Cassie. He didn't trust them at all.

Impulse grinned, and was gone, while Blue Beetle muttered something about the boy in Spanish or something. In any case, Arsenal didn't pick it up, and if it was in Spanish, he didn't speak the language except for a few odd words—hola, chica, chico, hasta la vista, you know, stuff everybody knew.

Cassie moved on as well, after patting his shoulder one more time.

Blue Beetle hunted in the fridge for a moment, got a snack, and headed out.

It seemed no one else was going to bother him—until Superboy showed up, apparently having hung back while the younger—not technically younger, but physically younger—members cleared out. He had his arms crossed over his chest at first, a frowning expression on his face, but he dropped his arms and the frown as he came over to Arsenal.

“Holding up?” he asked, looking down at him.

He knew that Superboy _knew_ , had been there, had been confirmed to know that Arsenal had not gotten everything successfully reattached. He glowered down at his milk a moment, but then, Superboy had saved him...maybe he could be a little less prickly.

“I'm fine.” Well, that came out a little more growled than he'd planned. So much for not being prickly.

“Hey. I'm not trying to coddle you here,” Superboy said, looking like he might adopt the posture from before again. His eyes were a bit hard, but somehow soft at the same time. “It's a big deal, what you went through, and I'm a senior member of the team. It's my job to make sure you're not about to--”

“Freak out and kill people? Yeah, probably not something you have to worry about, seeing as I'm kind of _disarmed_ ,” Arsenal snapped back. 

Superboy ignored the pun, obviously recognizing that it was not said to be clever or funny. He frowned back, saying, “You just have to make everything difficult, don't you? Red Arrow was never--”

“I'm not Red Arrow!” Arsenal shouted back. “I was on ice during all that time, remember? He's done a million things I haven't, and I—I woke up missing my fucking arm and my fucking life, okay? _I am not Red Arrow, and I never will be!_ ”

Superboy's temper was clearly flaring, if the heat seeming to flash in his eyes was a good indicator, but he simply ground his teeth rather loudly. “Arsenal. I am trying to help you, believe it or not, so stop it. I didn't do that to you, had nothing to do with it, okay? 

“Fuck off,” Arsenal grumbled. He didn't like that Superboy was making sense; he wanted to be angry. It was easier than being sad or scared. Or, especially, vulnerable.

Superboy's fist smashed into the countertop, leaving a dent. Not that big a dent, which meant he wasn't using his full strength, but he was clearly annoyed. “Look, I know what happened to you was really scary and horrifying, and I can't even imagine what you're going through, but stop pushing everyone away! You can't get through this by being mad at every person you know!”

“Yeah, cause you're the perfect example of that!” Arsenal shouted back.

“I am, actually!” Superboy snapped. He growled to himself, turning away from Arsenal. He took a deep breath, seeming to fill his chest. “Look. I'm going to give you some time to cool off. You need time to settle in. You can be as angry as you want—for now. But don't even think about taking it out on anyone here, got it?”

Arsenal glared into his cup, which was unfortunately empty. When Superboy clearly wasn't going to leave without a response, he snarled, “Yeah, sure, I won't do that!”

Superboy looked like he wanted to mangle something—maybe Arsenal, maybe something else. But he turned worldlessly and stalked from the room.

Arsenal got up, and defiantly poured himself a fourth glass, emptying the rest of the jug. Fuck whoever else might've wanted chocolate milk. They were the ones who trapped him here.

Though, he was starting to get rather full.

After he chugged that down, he left the kitchen area, searching for something to do. He would have much preferred to do something involved aiming, but he could neither pull back a bowstring or fire his arm without, well, his arm. He also knew they would not let him have weapons, most likely.

He found the gym pretty easily, the training area. He was told it had been less complex back in the early days of Young Justice; now, it had a number of training devices meant for specific superpowers. He ignored those, and walked to the sparring area, a padded but thoroughly sensored area.

In the middle, the third Robin was sparring with Static, known to Arsenal as Virgil Hawkins. Of course, the Robin was doing very well against Static, since they were only doing hand-to-hand combat and Robin had probably years of experience over Static, but Static was holding his ground and obviously had been training a lot.

Arsenal felt a little proud of him, having lived with him and the others for a while. He knew that Virgil had pretty good reflexes and natural ability, and what little he had taught him and the others, Virgil had absorbed it the best.

Robin looked up in surprise at seeing Arsenal, and maybe because he didn't take Virgil seriously enough, this allowed Virgil to nail him up under the chin, knocking him back onto his back.

'Winner: Static Shock.'

Robin looked chagrined. 

“Don't worry, I won't tell Batman!” Virgil crowed, grinning. Or at least, it sounded like he was grinning; his back was to Arsenal.

“Hey. Winner fights me,” Arsenal said, itching for a fight. Anything to feel normal again, like he was capable; he could kick Static's ass with no powers invovled, he was sure.

Virgil turned around, obvious shock on his face. It quickly smoothed out, and he said, “Oh! Hey Arsenal! Yeah, they said, you were, uh, back...are you sure you want to fight?”

“Completely,” Arsenal said flatly. He would ask after Static's health and all that shit after kicking his ass.

Robin looked unsure. “You need to heal, Arsenal. You're not ready to spar.”

“Hey, Robin, guess what? It's none of your business!” he snapped, and Robin frowned, but stepped out of the sparring area. 

“It's not a fair fight...” Virgil said, a bit unsurely.

“Yes, because with or without two arms, I can kick your ass any day,” Arsenal said, then grinned a little. “What, you scared I'm going to bloody your nose again?”

That had been an accident, but it was enough of the Arsenal that Static knew, apparently, cause he settled into a basic Karate stance: attack stance. Despite the name, it was good for offense or defense, as it allowed blocking and attack pretty easily.

Arsenal grinned. He settled into a stance as well, one that would favor his lack of another arm. “Come on. Show me you haven't completely slacked off since we last sparred. First blow's yours—well, the first attempt, anyway.”

Virgil lost his hesitance at that point, coming towards Arsenal. He attempted a roundhouse kick, and it probably would've hurt if it had connected—but Arsenal dodged. His blood was pumping now, and it felt natural, like this was what he was supposed to be doing.

His balance was a little off, but he compensated fast, nailing a snap kick into Virgil's chest. Virgil grunted, staggering backwards.

“Come on. Don't you dare go easy on me,” Arsenal grinned, “Cause I'll wipe the floor with you.”

Virgil still held that 'must be careful' look in his eyes, but he did try harder, going for sweeping Arsenal's legs out from under him.

Arsenal dodged easily, smirking. “Come on, you know that's your weakest technique, short of the more advanced stuff. Try harder.”

He wasn't as bad off as he thought he was, he thought to himself, perhaps a little more giddily than he should have. Cause the next moment, Static made a move, he made a miscalculated dodge, and bam—right to the crotch.

He was seeing stars, down like a tranquilized elephant—no grace in his falling against the floor and letting out a pained, strangled groan.

Virgil was instantly by him, saying, “Sorry, sorry, man! I didn't expect that to hurt, though I guess I wasn't aiming for--”

“Why the fuck wouldn't it...” 

All of the color drained from Arsenal's face. No. He had to mean something else, he couldn't possibly _know_ , just let it be something else, please--

“Cause, y'know, with what happened...” Virgil trailed off a bit awkwardly, though his eyes darted to Arsenal's crotch, but quickly looked away.

Please, Arsenal begged any and every god he could think of, let him mean something else. He stubbornly clung to the idea that Virgil was referring to something else, that he had no idea--

“Static, of course it would still hurt. There's a wound, and--” Robin's clinical words were enough.

Arsenal ran from the room, straight to his, not even noticing the people he barreled through in his desperation to reach somewhere away from their eyes. He made it into his room, clipping his arm painfully on the door, and it throbbed horribly as he slammed the door shut—why the fuck didn't it at least have a lock?!

He threw himself on the bed like a teenager, like someone whose life had been 'ruined' by their parents denying them an Iphone—but his life _was_ ruined. He screamed into the pillow, violently beating it until it was torn to shreds.

He didn't even notice the hot tears coming down his face.

He had no doubt, if Robin and Static Shock knew, then everyone on the team knew. He had no doubt that his humiliation was on full display for everyone.

He was soon out of screams, and was instead sobbing violently into the pillow.

How could they do this to him? How could they?

It was reiterated for him once again, as his life always seemed to do: there was no one he could trust. Not a single soul.

He cried himself out, frustration and humiliation more than enough to keep the tears coming. He hated that he was crying, and he hated that it felt like he couldn't stop it.

He hated everyone in this damn base.

He fell asleep unwillingly, utterly exhausted, his face red and hot to the touch, his hand clenched in the remains of his pillow.

It would probably be hell on earth tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about taking so long to update this! I love this story very much, it just kinda ended up on the backburner. DX I was like, Oh yeah, I should update that, how long has it... A MONTH?!
> 
> I hope people still like it. It's fun to write whump. :D
> 
> Also, I hope I'm characterizing Static Shock well. I haven't seen all of Season 2, but I know most of the details of what goes on. So, haven't seen him in action very much. Mostly know him as a character from the TV series way back when, though I know the Young Justice iteration is different. :) I've always liked writing him, honestly.


	5. Chapter 5

Arsenal woke up groggily, eyelids seeming to stick together. He felt like someone had done something to his face, made it ache and be sticky. He blinked blearily as he looked around the room and recognized nothing--

Up, on his feet, one hand raised in a protective fist, where was he, this couldn't be happening, he was--

Mount Justice.

The tension went out of his posture, and he nearly collapsed back onto the bed, body still feeling exhausted despite the sleep.

He absently felt his stub, and then, then it all hit.

They _knew_. The whole fucking base. Everyone in it, every person who might have once mattered to him in terms of respect. He wasn't sure if they still did at all, if he'd thrown them off and didn't care—but whether or not he had then, he was certain he didn't have their respect _now_.

He groaned, sort of rubbing his shaved-down head as he had once run his hand through his hair. God. God. How was he supposed to even function here, how was he supposed to even--?

He felt an unpleasant sensation. He realized instantly that his bladder was quite full, to the point of being almost painful. Well, not really painful, because, god, he knew what pain was, and this wasn't it, it was just...very uncomfortable.

Almost automatically, he'd clenched his legs together, and winced at the pain—and that was when it hit him.

He had never gone to bathroom like... _this_ before.

He felt stupid and small and like everything was unfair. Course, when had it ever been fair regarding him? He edged towards the door, but hesitated to grab the handle, what felt like snakes crawling in his gut. 

What if someone was out there? What if they saw him?

A more urgent sort of feeling seemed to come from his bladder, and he almost let out a dismayed sort of sound, but he choked it off.

He had two choices here: stand here and piss himself, and then have to take a shower, or go to the communal bathrooms.

He took a deep breath, and opened the door, because what the fuck would people think if they knew he pissed himself? He didn't think he could take that on top of this.

No one was in the hall. He would've breathed a sigh of relief, but he was honestly afraid of releasing his bladder, and if there was anything worse than pissing himself in his room, he was sure it was pissing himself in the hallway.

He hurried to the bathroom, and was relieved once again to find no one there. If he was lucky, they were all gone for the day—or even a week.

He shut himself in the stall, and then eyed the toilet.

God. _God._ How did he even...was he just supposed to...?

Despite his bladder's insistence, he stared at the toilet, mouth going kind of dry. He didn't even know if he... _could_ he use a toilet?

That was stupid. Of course he could. Unless they hadn't told him something and he was supposed to, he didn't know, use a catheter or something...

But god no. He wasn't doing that.

He supposed, even as the painful thought came through, that he just sat down. Like a girl.

Hot shame seemed to go through his body at that thought. He didn't hate girls, he just...wasn't one. Shouldn't ever be considered anything similar to them. And...he suddenly felt like he needed to throw up, _he wasn't a girl_ , it wasn't fair.

He felt much like he'd been accused of being one, like that was all anybody thought now that they knew.

Taking a deep breath, he reached for his pants, and as he got a grip, froze.

He didn't even know what he looked like down there. He had no idea. Well, some idea, but...

He didn't want to know, in some ways. He didn't want to be confronted with the reality he was...less than whole. Again. The arm had been hard enough to adjust to, painful and angry and screaming at times—but this? It was a pain that had a nonphysical side to it he could never have imagined.

He sank to his knees, unable to do it. God, he was probably going to piss his pants right here, right in front of a damn toilet.

This was stupid. It was fucked up. Why the fuck did these things happen to him? What'd he ever done to deserve something like this?

So far as he could tell, daring to have any relation to Green Arrow. Daring to be anywhere near any other hero—or anyone at all.

The urge came to him strongly again, and it made him let out a soft whimper. He couldn't. He couldn't bear it, couldn't even stomach the idea.

God, was he crying? He scrubbed at his face, even as he started to rock uncomfortably.

He didn't have as much control over his bladder as he thought he did, he realized quickly, when the warmth invaded his pants and yes, his bladder felt better now, but he was soaked within a few seconds and feeling rather like he wanted to just die here.

God. He could normally hold it for a very long time, having been on missions where that was quite necessary—it had been a few hours at most since he'd consumed all that chocolate milk.

Fucking—god, why did he do that? Why didn't he think?

He was still crying, he realized, sitting there in his own piss. He swiped at his eyes angrily, but couldn't make himself get up. He couldn't use the anger to make his legs work, even though there was nothing wrong with them.

He just sat there in the closed stall, crying at what he hoped was a quiet volume, and stinking to high heaven. 

He was stupid. Stupider than stupid, how could he have let himself get captured? How could he have let this happen to himself?

How could he let himself still be trapped here?

He pulled his arm tight around himself, achingly missing the ability to fully hug himself. Or to be hugged by anyone.

He stiffened when he heard the door open, instantly quieting. Of course, he wasn't exactly completely hidden by the stall, and he heard a soft voice,

“Roy?”

He stayed silent, recognizing the voice. It was stupid, it was hilariously futile, but he didn't want to talk to Nightwing right then, or really anyone. He didn't want him to realize what had happened.

He heard Nightwing sigh, then knock on the stall door. It was a gentle knock, knuckles tapping against the metal in a small sound that would not echo out of the bathroom. Like he didn't want people to know he was talking to Arsenal.

Arsenal shifted a little, stubbornly staying silent. His face felt like it would explode, pale-feeling and hot at the same time, tear tracks seeming to evaporate. He refused to scrub at his face again, as it might give him away as having been crying.

Nightwing sighed softly. Why was everything so gentle and soft with him? It wasn't fair, Arsenal wasn't _delicate_ , he wasn't ruined and broken and easily toppled. “Roy. Come on, talk to me; what's wrong?”

“Go away,” Arsenal growled, voice too small for the echoing bathroom and far less vicious than he'd planned. 

Another sigh. Nightwing made the door creak a little with his movement against it. “Do you want me to call Roy?”

How he just seamlessly called them both Roy, the inflections making it clear which one he meant, Arsenal didn't know. He knew they weren't the same person, that Nightwing had mostly known the clone Roy Harper, that yeah, he and little Robin had met, had done _some_ things together, like complain about their mentors (Robin had been a gap-toothed ten year old, too bright and chirpy for his own good; Arsenal—Speedy, had been a grumpy teenager but always glad to share digs at Green Arrow).

It...it didn't make sense, at all. It was hard to process, that eight years had gone by, and the five year gap between them one way had become a three year gap the other way. God, he'd once even _held_ tiny ten-year-old Robin, when he'd been hit in the head and a little disoriented—nothing big in their line of work, and he was up and bouncing again within the hour, but...he'd been a tiny child that Arsenal had felt protective of.

Now. Now, it was all wrong.

“No,” Arsenal finally replied, staring stubbornly ahead at the toilet. If Roy—Red Arrow, whatever, if he knew that Arsenal had pissed himself, maybe he'd give up. Maybe he'd realize the hopeless case of his original for what it was, like fucking everyone else did.

Everyone already knew he was hopeless. Fuck them, though.

“Roy, I know you're hurting--”

A rage went through Arsenal; what did Nightwing know? He had no fucking idea what it felt like, how he had—had, just, wanted everything gone, wanted to be left alone but could never be when he needed it, how he wasn't _whole_ , he wasn't who he was supposed to be--

And Nightwing.

A shock hit him. Nightwing must have told them. He must have been the one, because he was certain that neither Red Arrow nor Superboy would do that to him. Red knew, had to know, that this was not shareable information—and Superboy wasn't a gossip.

“--and watch a movie, okay?”

He hadn't been listening at all. He practically snarled at the door, “Go the fuck away, or I'll kill you. You hear me? I'll fucking murder you, Nightwing.” His voice was raising, getting angrier and louder. “You bastard, you fucking bastard, you just had to, didn't you? Nothing's secret except your secrets, everyone else's are fair game! Fuck you! Fuck you with a rusty crow bar! If I had my arm--”

“Roy!” Nightwing's sharp command should have quieted him, maybe, but it didn't.

“No! You don't get to boss me around, no one does! If you don't get the fuck away, and let me get the fuck out of here, I'm going to hurt someone—probably you, you fucking asshole! Just let me go, I belong alone, like always, and I will fucking kill you if you don't!” The rage was eating him alive, burning in him like an overheated furnace. He didn't want to move, though, hunched over and breathing fire.

“You can't kill me, Roy,” Nightwing said sharply, “You're in no such state.”

Arsenal had to go for the next best thing, he thought, in his blinding, heated anger. “Then I'll kill the other Robin! I'll sneak up when he's sleeping and bash his head in with a crowbar! I'll fucking--”

The door was abruptly wrenched open, something snapping, and Arsenal would have cringed, did cringe, but quickly turned to make a hate-filled glare.

Nightwing was glaring back, waves of furious protectiveness seeming to come off of him. “If you so much as mess up a hair on his head, _Arsenal_ , you'll wish I'd killed you,” he growled, an ice cold willingness to not so much kill as make the victim suffer evident in his words.

Arsenal should have been scared, he was sure. Nightwing could kill him if he chose, could do almost anything to him, if he chose. But instead, he screamed back, “Then let me leave, you fucking asshole bastard! Let me leave, and at least let me suffer alone instead of as everyone's fucking new soap! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! Why the fuck would you _tell them?_ ”

Was he crying? Because his face burned, his eyes seemed blurry even as he mustered up as much hate as possible towards Nightwing.

Nightwing paused. It was hard to tell his facial expression, because Arsenal's vision was a bit obscured. His posture seemed to relax a little, and a hand landed on Arsenal's shoulder—which he tried to flinch away from, rather violently. Nightwing said, as softly as he could, “I didn't tell them, Roy. They know?”

Arsenal was breathing too hard to give an answer, his head only ducking down in shame and pain and just knowing that fucking everyone was aware, that there was no way he could continue on like this.

Nightwing sighed. “I promise, I didn't tell them. I would never do that to you, Roy. My best guess is, they got too curious, and someone with very good hacking abilities checked your file. I'm...I'm really sorry. They weren't supposed to know.”

Arsenal felt small now, the anger of before replacing with feeling tiny and completely unprotected. He shivered, wrapping his arm around himself again. He felt cold, and Nightwing's hand, even though it had a glove over it, felt like the only warm thing in the room. “Fuck them,” he said, voice a tiny croak, “Fuck them.”

“There will be consequences,” Nightwing said, but quickly continued on, as if aware that did nothing to fix the situation, “If...if you want to shower, I can stand...be a guard, of sorts. Okay?”

He didn't mention the smell and obvious wet patch in the light gray-blue sweats, but it was apparent he knew. But Arsenal was just too tired to shrink in humiliation, feeling like he couldn't reach new lows. He numbly nodded.

Nightwing gave him a hand up, steadying him as he wobbled. The look on his face was solemn, but...sympathy, maybe, hopefully, not pity.

He disappeared with a promise to be back as Arsenal washed his hand, splashed water on his face.

Then, Nightwing returned, bundle in hand, presumably clothes, and ushered him to the showers. 

True to his word, he stood guard.

And Arsenal...he stared at the showerhead fixedly as he stripped, never once looking away as he let the hot water run down his body. He ignored any sensations of any kind in the general lower body area, shut his eyes and ran nonsensical rhymes through his head until he was sure he'd been there long enough.

He wasn't looking. He wasn't going to look. 

He wasn't sure if he ever could.

The towel was big, white, and warm, and shockingly, more than big enough to wrap around not just his waist, but his entire body. He did that, and approached Nightwing.

Nightwing didn't look back, handing him a new set of underwear and sweats and the like.

He wordlessly changed.

He had a brief hope that he could trust Nightwing. That maybe he could lean on him, maybe just a little. Trust...was a long way off, but...

This was shattered, when Nightwing brought him into the med bay of the base.

A woman in a lab coat sat there, and she gave a brief nod towards Nightwing. Nightwing looked over at Arsenal. “This is Dr. Galloway. She'll be doing your checkup.”

Arsenal's heart dropped into his feet.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arsenal freaks out--but Red Arrow is the one calming presence in his life. Which, of course, he finds twisted, but what else is he supposed to do? Normal went out the window a long time ago.

Arsenal was already taking defensive steps backward when Nightwing said, in what he probably thought was a reassuring tone, “It's okay, Arsenal. She knows how to deal with superheroes, and she's not going to harm you.”

He didn't say hurt. That was a bad sign, in Arsenal's opinion. His eyes flicked over to the doctor, who was watching him with all too grim expression.

“I'm here to check your hormone levels; they shouldn't be extreme yet, but we need to know where you're at so we can start treatment.”

Arsenal almost looked to Nightwing for help, for guidance—but that would be stupid. He also wished he had more knowledge of what she was talking about. “Hormones?” he asked, a bit helplessly.

God, he sounded stupid.

She nodded, seeming pleased that he understood. “Yes. With the removal of your testes, you lack testosterone for the most part. If it goes untreated, your body will change to a different form—what we'd call more feminine.”

He wanted to die, honestly. Wasn't it bad enough that he was lacking in such important parts? Now he was going to turn into a girl unless he let them do whatever the fuck they wanted to him?

It was a trick. He backed another couple steps away, saying with an all too dry mouth, “I don't believe you. You just want to—to do something to me!”

She let out an irritable sigh. “No. You're not superhuman, so there's no particular reason I would be interested in harming you or drawing blood for any reason other than--”

“You're not taking my blood!” Arsenal shouted, the mental image of needles entering his skin like ice in his veins. He was nearly to the door of the infirmary when Nightwing stepped towards him.

“Roy, she needs to take your blood, and it'll barely hurt, I swear. She can't check your hormone levels without taking a blood sample to test--”

“Then she'll have to take it off my dead, cold body!” Arsenal shouted, and he turned and ran. The doors had slid open easily, thank god, and his feet slapped against the floor.

He was off balance. He was not as fast as he was with two arms.

And Nightwing definitely had two arms.

He wasn't tackled, per se. Instead, he was simply seized tightly, pinning his arm against his side. The idea of being immobilized flashed through his mind like a lightning bolt, and muscle memory kicked in—a combination of karate, driving his one elbow back into Nightwing's gut, and driving his heel down Nightwing's shin and into the top of his foot.

Nightwing should have known better than to treat him like some civilian invalid.

There was a snapping sound, and Nightwing let go with a cry.

Arsenal ran for his life, adrenaline moving like ice through his veins. Or, icy, fast water, he supposed. It hurt, but it was also exhilarating, driving daggers of pain and fear into his skull.

Doctors. People in lab coats who fucking sliced and stabbed and injected people for a living. People who didn't give a fuck about the person they hurt so long as they reached their goals, cold, reptilian eyes moving over their clipboards or screens and not caring that the person on their bed or table was screaming, begging to be left alone, _he was fucking fifteen, please, god, he didn't want to die on a lab table--_

Arsenal realized, even in his panic, that he couldn't outrun Nightwing—probably. So, he did the next best thing—took the cover off the vent and slid inside, popping it back into place.

He had to move quietly, but frankly, the place was made to move through. On your hands (hand) and knees, but still, a lot less claustrophobic than some places.

It wasn't as hard as some people might think, to move on one hand and your knees. If you were desperate, you could move pretty fast, and Arsenal was desperate.

“Roy! Roy, come on, this isn't what you think it is. Come out, and we'll talk about this.”

Nightwing's voice was echoing throughout the vents, but not in the sense that he was talking into them. Thank god. He was just calling into the hallway, a sort of pained hitch in his voice.

Arsenal might very well have broken his foot. 

The top bone was somewhat easily broken, somewhat. It was definitely doable, anyway, even for someone not a trained superhero like him. Which was good, because his muscle mass was way down.

He needed every advantage he could get to get out of here. He wasn't sure if the others were there, but if it was just Nightwing, it would still be a challenge, but perhaps doable. Perhaps.

He quietly clambered along, ignoring Nightwing's voice—well, at least not doing what it wanted. He still heard the words.

“Roy, please come out. I know you're hiding.”

Arsenal grit his teeth, glaring ahead as he headed for the nearest exit—he hoped. He didn't have the most extensive knowledge of the vents, though he had scoped them out early on to make sure he had an escape route in the case of dire events.

He wished he had memorized the area better.

It sounded like a sigh escaped from Nightwing. “Please, Roy...you have to know I would never let the doctor hurt you. We're trying to help you. I know it's a lot to adjust to, but I want to make it so it's less hard on you. Hormones will help you stay...well, normal. Yourself.”

Lies. It was all a lie, as always, because every adult hero, every single 'hero' over him, was sure they knew better. They just wanted to poke and prod him and tie him down so he couldn't be an embarrassment anymore. So he couldn't be the failure of the whole sidekick deal.

So he wouldn't be unwanted, leftover remnants of their mistakes.

He stopped a moment, taking in a deep breath. God, he needed to keep from freaking the fuck out, or else he would be too loud and would be found.

He would make it. He knew he would, they wouldn't be able to hold him down and take whatever the fuck they wanted.

He would sooner die than go back to being a lab rat, a scientific project. He would sooner die than be trapped again.

His head hurt, he realized, starting to throb.

“I want you to get better, and you can't do that by running away, Roy. We want you to get better, no one here is out to get you. It's all in your head.”

Fuck that. All the team, who snooped on him and humiliated him, were not out to get him? Yeah right. The Justice League, who literally disarmed him and had him held against his will in a hospital, drugged beyond belief, were not out to get him? Fuck that, it wasn't the truth at all.

He reached the hatch out—and found it locked securely. He fiddled with the latching mechanism, but it was solid metal, and was not going anywhere, no matter what he did with his weak, fleshy hand.

He almost gave a grunt of frustration, but caught himself in time. A sweat was starting to break out on his skin. He couldn't get out. He couldn't escape. _He was trapped._

No wonder Nightwing wasn't chasing him anymore.

He curled into a ball, not sure what else to do. The front door was not an option, he would have to fight his way out and he just wasn't capable of that right then.

He could evade, but not indefinitely.

“I know you're scared, but it's all right—you're among friends. I would never let them hurt you, Roy. I wouldn't let something like what happened happen again.”

He wasn't scared, damn Nightwing. He took in a hiccuping breath, and immediately tried to smother the sound. Goddamnit. He held his breath, but soon enough, he heard Nightwing directly beneath his vent.

“Please, Roy. I only want to help you.”

He shook his head, despite Nightwing not being able to see it. He didn't want his help. No one could actually help him, fix him, make it better. There was little hope of that, if there was any at all.

He had to breathe, and soon, the hiccups were back, and he realized he was crying again, arm wrapped around his knees.

It was too hard. It was too much. He shouldn't be expected to endure all this shit, he was just fucking fifteen, what god had decided he should try to become some sort of suffering saint—or, more probably, an example?

That's what he was. An example. How _not_ to be a superhero. How tempers ruined everything. How choosing the superhero life when one didn't have powers was a death sentence or worse.

How a failure could never be more than that, how a child that was ruined by tragedy could never rise from it.

He was hiccuping more, he realized.

Nightwing sighed. “I'm calling Roy. He'll be here soon.”

Arsenal just buried his face into his knees, desperately wanting to see Roy-the-clone and desperately wanting him to not see him this way.

But Nightwing made the call, voice soft and low, not completely audible, though words like 'freaking out' and 'needs you' came through. Arsenal chose not to hear the comments on how he was traumatized and scared and needed a familiar face.

Ha. His own face. He supposed that was familiar enough.

Nightwing stayed under the vent, making no attempt to come in and drag Arsenal out. He did occasionally make assurances, promising Arsenal that it would be all right, that Roy would be here soon, that everything was okay.

Liar. Fucking liar.

But Roy did show up, remarkably fast. His brisk walk was audible throughout the hall, and despite himself, Arsenal felt the slightest bit calmer.

It was familiar indeed, and he needed that, in some ways.

Roy-the-clone stopped under the vent, and said, “Hey. What's going on?”

Arsenal waited for Nightwing to answer, but he didn't. It occurred to him that Red Arrow was talking to him, and he took a deep breath. Then, he managed words. “They want to take stuff from me. They—they wanna do needles and take my damn blood, and they want to take everything and inject me and--”

“Deep breaths, Roy,” Red Arrow said, a bit of a softness to his tone.

His breathing was frantic, Arsenal realized, and he tried to take deep breaths. He just took faster breaths instead.

Red Arrow's voice was surprisingly like balm. “Okay. I understand why you're freaked out. You don't have to do it if you're not ready.”

“Roy,” Nightwing said, clearly addressing Red Arrow, “He needs treatment. He needs hormones replaced, or--”

“Will he die without them if he waits until he's comfortable?” Red Arrow said, his tone a little sharp.

Nightwing was quiet a moment. “Well,” he admitted, “No, but it may cause changes, and his mood will fluctuate badly. He could have issues with depression, anxiety, temper control--”

“But he won't die. And frankly, he's going to have those problems if you force him to take needles in the arm or wherever, Nightwing. He's been through a lot with doctors and shit, you can't expect him to just roll over and let you do whatever you want to him. Especially after that bullshit in the hospital.” Red Arrow's voice was sharp, was almost-but-barely-not accusing.

Arsenal was relaxing a little. Red Arrow knew him, knew he couldn't do this. Red Arrow was safe.

Nightwing sighed. “I suppose it can wait. I had hoped to talk him into it—I wasn't ever going to strap him down and force treatment on him. You know that.”

Red Arrow gave a sort of grunt in response, and apparently turned his attention back to Arsenal. “Hey. Roy. Come on, you can come down now. No one's going to force you to do anything. And if they do, they'll have to deal with me. Okay?”

Arsenal shakily got up. He could trust Red Arrow...right? He could trust him. He knew he wouldn't be tricking him.

But the fear seized him. What if Red Arrow was in on it? He was a convincing liar, wasn't he? He knew how to be deceitful. What if he had decided this was in Arsenal's best interest, and it didn't matter how they got it done as long as they did?

He froze over the grate, looking down at the pair.

His heart was beating fast in his chest, trying to gauge Red Arrow's stance. He didn't seem to be fiddling with anything, any tells that he was lying seemingly nonexistent. He also was looking up at the vent, and his mask made it hard to tell, but he looked...concerned.

Arsenal swallowed thickly. He could trust Roy-the-clone. He could.

He slid open the grate, and jumped down, landing in a crouch. When Nightwing made the slightest move in his direction, however, he was quick to move behind Red Arrow, placing him between them.

Nightwing's expression was almost hurt.

Red Arrow looked over at Arsenal, sighing and saying, “Come on. Have you had breakfast? You look terrible.”

Arsenal clenched his teeth, looking down sharply at his feet. But he wanted Roy-the-clone to help him, care about him, even... _protect_ him, he supposed. No, not protect—that was just a stupid part of him talking. He didn't give in to childish feelings like that, especially when he knew no one was truly capable of protecting him.

But he followed as Red Arrow headed for the kitchen.

Nightwing gave him a sympathetic look, an 'you don't have to eat if you don't want to—yet' sort of look, like 'I'm sorry you pissed your pants' look too, and Arsenal pointedly ignored him.

He just wouldn't drink anything. That would solve the problem.

Short term though that thought was, he couldn't think of anything better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! I really love this story, and even though I feel this chap wasn't heavy on the whump, you can expect more soon!
> 
> I feel like Arsenal would have a really hard time with doctors in general. Don't know exactly what his time captured was like, or if he was supposed to be aware of it at all, but I suppose I'm just rolling with the idea.
> 
> I feel like Red and Arsenal are sort of a brotp in this fic. I kinda like it that way, as it turns out. :)
> 
> Also, pairing shit will be figured out in the future, I promise. Might end up adding more pairings and stuff too, as well as more characters, but we'll see where it goes. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team apologizes--and Arsenal finds out he has some other issues.

Arsenal didn't like the way that Red kept looking at him.

After he'd refused both soup and chocolate milk, and instead set to munching on some very dry crackers (saltines. That would work very well), his clone had not been able to stop looking at him in a scrutinizing sort of way.

Arsenal clenched his jaw, then snapped it open, viciously crunching a cracker. Fuck Red Arrow—except, don't. Except, he didn't want him to hate him or look down on him too.

“You've got be hungry for more than saltines,” Red Arrow finally said, that thinking look on his face. 

“No. These are my favorite,” Arsenal lied.

“You hate saltines,” Red Arrow said flatly, “ _We_ hate saltines, ever since that whole sick-to-the-point-of-being-delirious and Ollie leaving the damn King and I on while he forced us—you, to eat saltines and ginger ale, despite us—you, throwing it up cause not even water was staying down. I remember that. Just at the beginning of the whole Speedy thing.”

Arsenal glared, but he wouldn't admit just the taste of the crackers was making him feel nauseous. Better nauseous than anything that contributed to needing to piss again, though.

Saltines were perfect for that.

“Well, I love them now,” he grumbled, shoving another one into his mouth and hating the salty-papery kind of flavor.

Red Arrow was quiet a moment, then said, “Are you sick? Because there's ginger ale too.”

He didn't hate that, for whatever reason, but Arsenal shook his head. “No. No, I'm not sick.” Fuck. That was a bad lie, he should have said he was sick but didn't want ginger ale.

“Okay.” Red Arrow sounded like he didn't believe it.

Arsenal choked down his mouthful of crackers. They were beginning to stick badly in his mouth, all around his gums, and it made him want to gag. God, he hated saltines. He wanted water more than ever now—stupid move. 

But he would hold back. He would—would figure something out.

Red Arrow's gaze went to the faucet, and Arsenal realized his own gaze must have flickered there longingly. Damn it. “Roy, if you're thirsty, you should drink.”

Arsenal clenched his teeth tightly, and snapped, “I'm not thirsty.”

Red wisely didn't press it, though he did look vaguely disappointed. “Then let's go--”

A blur cut him off, and suddenly, Impulse was in the kitchen. He grinned at Arsenal, but now Arsenal could recognize the look for what it was—pity. Trying to help him heal like some animal they'd found outside, a baby bunny their dog had captured.

And he knew. _He knew_. 

“Hey, Arsenal! Whatcha got there? Oooh, I love salties!” Impulse was already eating a vast quantity of the crackers.

Arsenal barely registered the wrong name for the crackers. It felt like his guts were shriveling up inside, like he was exposed for the world to see. He curled in a bit on himself involuntarily, and clenched his hand on the countertop.

That was about when the rest trooped in: Tim, Virgil, Cassie, Garfield, La'gaan, and Jaime. Rocket wasn't here today.

Arsenal felt like their eyes were searing him, and he could see from the way that Red Arrow shifted that he picked up on his feelings, his posture, which was defensive, like a trapped animal.

“I...we, uh,” Tim started, looking ashamed, head ducking down as he rubbed the back of his neck. “We wanted to apologize. But mostly me, because I was the one who hacked into your file, and I'm really, really sorry, I just didn't think--”

Arsenal wished he had his arm. He would shoot Tim, if only just to shut him up. “Fuck you,” he growled, “I don't care about your fucking apology!”

“I didn't mean for everyone to know,” Tim insisted, “I was, uh--”

“Sick amusement, yeah, I get it, fuckhead,” Arsenal growled, and this couldn't be happening, they were all looking at him with those sorry expressions and god _he wanted to die_...

“No, I just wanted to know what happened! We usually know when a teammate's been hurt, and you were--” Tim's voice was kind of frantic, as if he had to prove he wasn't the bad guy here.

“I am not your teammate, asshole! I'll never be your damn teammate, I'd rather kill you all than work with you!” Arsenal shouted, practically screamed at them.

They looked shocked at that.

Virgil said, as delicately as possible, “Dude, we're sorry. Everyone just wanted to know what was wrong, cause man, I've never seen you so messed up. I was—it was fucked up, what I said yesterday, and I didn't mean to hurt you--”

“I'm not hurt, shut the fuck up!” Arsenal snarled at Virgil, his one time friend. One time teammate.

Red was still watching, a ready-to-move sort of stance going on.

Cassie stepped forward then, gently putting a hand on Arsenal's shoulder. He flinched away, feeling the touch rather like how someone else might feel a hot pan from the oven. She looked sad. “Arsenal, it's okay. We still care about you, and we're going to help you get through this--”

“No! No, get away!” Arsenal shouted, pulling back, feeling like his face would blister from the heat that seemed to be there. “It's not okay, and you assholes aren't—you can't, I won't let you, I can't trust any of you!”

They seemed shamed at this. Damn right they should be.

He knew he was going to cry—he felt like he was crying. But, strangely, no tears came to his eyes.

Impulse had seemingly switched to a more empathetic mode. “I know you're moded right now, but you gotta crash the mode. You can't let your anger consume you, cause it will, and you won't--”

“Shut the fuck up!” Arsenal practically screamed, and abruptly threw the plate that Red had gotten him for his crackers at Impulse. Naturally, Impulse caught it, but the others were looking at him like he was crazy.

Fuck them, he wasn't crazy! He was breathing hard though, and his skin felt too tight, too hot.

“Arsenal,” Red Arrow started, but he obviously knew better than to say 'calm down.' “Come with me.”

Wrong choice. Arsenal's anger, lack of control, seemed to flare up, and he shouted, “I'm not going anywhere with anyone! Leave me the fuck alone!”

And he turned to run, taking off down the hallway towards the entrance.

The others only seemed to realize this after a few seconds. “He's going to get out!” Tim said, “Nightwing said--”

“Fuck Nightwing,” Arsenal heard from Red Arrow, “You're going to--”

And it cut off as he went round the corner, metal a good blocker for sound. He didn't care, they couldn't keep him here, he wouldn't stay—they wanted needles, they wanted to mock him, stare at him until he lost it completely--

He was breathing too hard, his lungs felt like they were on fire. What the hell was going on?

They'd tricked him! They'd dosed him up, they'd made him weaker—they were going to catch him, that was why Impulse hadn't caught up, that was why Red Arrow was telling them not to chase him—they knew he couldn't get out, that whatever they'd done would take him down first.

Ragged breaths came in and out, and he pushed on, seeing spots in his vision. Fuck them. Fuck all this.

He was getting out, damn them!

The entrance swam into view, and his chest felt like a desert. He felt too hot, too stupid as the blood sluggishly moved through his body-- _they'd tricked him, they'd tricked him_ , even Red Arrow was in on it.

He let a dry, racking sob, stumbling to his knees as his body wanted to lay down. He reached for the entrance, staggering back up to his feet.

Not far. He just had to make it, and then he could get out--

Strong arms lifted him bridal style. “Roy, it's okay, you're having the beginnings of a heat stroke--”

“Fuck you, that's not true,” he moaned, eyes closing tightly. That was ridiculous. He wasn't severely dehydrated, he couldn't be, yet. He struggled feebly, able to tell this was Red Arrow.

“You might notice you're not sweating, and you obviously haven't been hydrating—if you've been crying, then it can dehydrate you pretty fast,” Red Arrow said, no apparent judgement in his tone, but Arsenal still felt it, and twisted in his arms. Red Arrow kept a hold. “I didn't do this, but they put you on a cocktail of things—including psychotropic drugs. One of them has the effect of not letting you sweat, for the most part.”

“Fuck you, why'd you let them do that?” Arsenal demanded, sounding much more like a betrayed whine than he would have liked.

“I didn't. I got them to get you off of them before you woke up—they were gonna put you on a whole regimen,” Red Arrow's tone showed his distaste for their medicine, for doctors in general at the moment. “You have to try—or else they're going to try to put you on them again.”

Arsenal could have screamed. Instead, he tucked his face against Red Arrow's chest, mumbling, as his head seemed to just throb and bake, “I don't want to. I'll die first.”

“Hell, you kidding? I'll fight them as much as I have to. They can't do that to you,” Red Arrow said firmly. He was walking, Arsenal realized dimly.

He didn't go through the kitchen, but to the general bathroom area.

Arsenal started to struggle as they entered the shower area, suddenly terrified that he was going to be stripped naked. “No, no! No, stop!”

“It's okay, Roy. It's okay,” Red Arrow promised, but how could he trust him? How could he trust anyone?

He struggled anyway, too weak to get free from his older clone's grip. The clone turned on an ice cold shower, and then, without much further ado, stood under it, getting Arsenal thoroughly soaked with the wonderfully cold water.

Arsenal relaxed in Red Arrow's grip, and it felt like the first time he'd even mildly relaxed since...shit went down.

He could not cry, but he felt like it. Maybe tears of relief, that Red Arrow turned out to be on his side. Maybe because everything was shit, but he had one person who might actually help him.

He could feel Red Arrow shivering just slightly, given how cold the water was.

He shut his eyes, and trusted, for once. 

Besides, he thought wryly, if he couldn't trust himself, who could he trust?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd get heat strokes all the fucking time from my psych meds, except I didn't know that at the time and everyone just called me lazy. :P Yup, that's why I'm staggering around and lying down on the lawn, it's cause I don't want to do manual labor in 90 degree weather. Yup.
> 
> And I hope this chapter was good. It's kinda short, but I wanted to update cause I love this story. Also, suddenly Arsenal and Red Arrow are my Brotp. :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arsenal might get better, with Red Arrow's help.

Red Arrow seemed to recognize that Arsenal didn't want to be around the others, and when he'd cooled down enough, was coherent, he took him to his room. Red's room, that is, not Arsenal's. It was sparse, but not sparse in the same way Arsenal's was—it had weapons, tools used to keep weapons in shape (bows were surprisingly delicate weapons), a large bed, a dresser, a small fridge, and a comfy-looking chair that sat in front of a computer.

Red deposited him on the bed, and then walked over to the fridge, wordlessly getting a water bottle out and holding it out to Arsenal.

Arsenal could feel the tight expression on his face, and he quickly ducked his eyes down towards his knees, which he'd had kind of sprawled before but which he quickly brought up to his chest with his one arm. “I'm not thirsty.”

A groan came from above him. Red said, “Arsenal, you just had a heat stroke. You need to drink. You know you can't just not hydrate...or subsist on saltines. You will die.”

Arsenal glared at his knees. He didn't want to be mad at Red, but he was kinda mad at _everybody_ rather indiscriminately. He didn't entirely want to rationalize it out. “Maybe that'd be better.”

He was startled to find his chin seized, his eyes forced to look up into Red's. “No. Roy, damnit, no, I did not search for you for five years for you to just—just--”

Something seemed to change in Red's facial expression when Arsenal said nothing. Arsenal realized he felt frozen, the grip on his chin not entirely frightening and kind of warm, but also just...wrong.

Red let go, backing away just a little, letting out a breath. “Look. Look. If you want to kill yourself...first off, there's a lot less agonizing ways than dehydration—secondly--”

“I'm not—I don't want to kill myself. I think,” Arsenal cut in, voice a bit growling but not much, kind of trailing off as he looked at his hand, which was gripping the top of one of his knees.

Red nodded, seeming to calculate what was going on. “Okay. Then why the hell—why aren't you drinking?”

Arsenal could feel his face get red, heated, with shame, and how exactly was he supposed to tell Red that he couldn't stand to piss? That he hadn't been able to last time, and had simply wet himself instead? He buried his face against his knees, somehow pulling his body into itself tighter. “Just...just...”

He couldn't bring himself to say it.

He could practically feel Red's blanch as he said, “...oh. Oh. God, that's...”

“Fucked up?” Arsenal said weakly, feeling small and on display. He shut his eyes tightly, not liking to think of what Red Arrow must think of him now.

“Would a catheter help?” Red tried tentatively.

“Fuck no,” Arsenal said tiredly. He'd expected to snap, but he didn't, able to recognize that Red was just trying to help him. It was hard to interact with most people in this period of vulnerability and weakness, but Red was just a bit easier than the rest.

Maybe a lot easier.

Red sighed. “You're going to have to piss sometime, Roy. I know you're having a hard time with it, and believe me, I may not have been there, but, yeah, I get that it's difficult. That your whole world must be shattered.” He scratched he back of his head, a little awkwardly. “But you've got to adapt. I don't want them to take you.”

Arsenal growled to himself. He'd rather die than go back. “They're not gonna take me alive, Arrow.”

“Then you can't get so dehydrated you're about to die. There's no way around it,” Red Arrow said, a bit grimly.

Arsenal curled tighter somehow, feeling like his body was a loaded spring about to burst forward. He didn't want to even think about it, didn't want to admit there was no going back, that this was the way things were now. He mumbled, “I can't, I just can't.”

His tone must have sounded broken, because—that couldn't possibly be a _hug_ , could it? But Red's arms were around him rather grimly, a firm hold that made that tight knot of stress and fear and horror seem to loosen just a little.

“You can. You survived eight years frozen away, and you've survived life adjusting to a world that's changed so much since you woke up—there's no fucking way you're letting this beat you. Got it?”

Arsenal fought nuzzling closer or something stupid like that. He wasn't some weak baby or something that would be soothed by a warm hug. Even if he liked it. Even if it felt like the first good touch he'd had in a long time. “It's so...stupid. Just...stupid.”

God, was he choked up?

“It's okay,” Red said, and if he was still like Arsenal himself, this was a huge thing for him—he didn't show much affection towards _anyone_.

Red drew away when he apparently deemed that Arsenal was okay—which, he didn't feel as cold and trembling anymore, so he supposed he was better.

“I thought of something,” Red said, “Maybe, just for now, you could piss in the shower. Would that help?”

Arsenal didn't want to piss at all, but he had to admit, at least standing felt...slightly more right. Not completely right, but...he just nodded. He could try that, right?

Red shoved the water bottle into his hands. “Drink up, then. Like hell I'm letting them put an IV in you or something.”

The water tasted like heaven. It tasted like he hadn't had any in years. He'd already downed half the water bottle before Red pushed it down, saying,

“Okay, okay, you don't want to get sick, right?”

Arsenal nodded, finding himself taking big breaths as he stopped drinking. He had sort of realized how thirsty he was, but he sort of hadn't at the same time. And now his stomach hurt a little...and was growling.

It seemed Red could hear it too, because he gave a sort of smile, and handed him a carton of chocolate milk and a sandwich (from a deli, Arsenal guessed, wrapped in plastic wrap) from his mini fridge. “Come on. Eat up. We both know saltines are about as nutritious as cardboard.”

“And fucking gross,” Arsenal agreed, feeling a weird little warmth in his chest at agreeing on this. Red Arrow was...safe. He understood, at least far, far better than anyone else.

And god, was Arsenal hungry. He tore into the sandwich, and had pretty soon finished it. “You don't usually stock up on fresh foods,” he commented.

Red snorted at that. “Yeah, not usually.”

Arsenal immediately felt a sort of freefalling horror in his stomach, for just an instant—had he gotten this solely for him? He couldn't do that—it wasn't—he couldn't quite put his finger on how it was wrong. He just clenched his teeth and choked down the rest of the chocolate milk.

It was weird to think of, but it...sort of scared him to know someone cared. He'd been fine without someone really _caring_ in a long time, and he wasn't sure what to do with it.

Red seemed to have caught it, though, and said, “Hey. Everyone needs help sometimes, okay? I know you'll return the favor when I need it.”

This assuaged Arsenal's feeling of horror then. He owed Red, but he would pay it back—this was something they both knew. It was like a barter—except now he owed him twice, right? He'd rescued him from perpetuity on ice—or death. And now he was helping him with...this shit.

Arsenal felt a little stupid. Red _had_ to realize this was a bad deal—that maybe Arsenal wouldn't recover, would never be what he had been—would never be able to repay him. How did he expect him to repay it? Maybe he didn't. Maybe he saw him as charity.

This made a kind of rock of discomfort in his gut. He didn't _want_ to be a charity case. He wanted to be strong. He wanted to be independent.

He sort of wanted to be alone.

“Hey. What's going on in that buzzed little head of yours?” Red wanted to know, a frown across his features. As if he couldn't just guess.

Instead of answering that question, Arsenal simply stated, “I think I'm due for my pain meds.”

Which, yeah, it hurt. His arm ached, other parts ached, his whole body felt sort of weak...he could do with something to dull it.

Red still frowned, but apparently wasn't going to push it. Unlike Ollie. Who had yet to show his face—was that good or bad? Was Arsenal mad or happy that his former mentor hadn't shown up at all?

He _had_ said he didn't want him to...but since when did Oliver respect shit like that?

If he didn't care, maybe he did 'respect' it.

Which was a stupid thought, stupidly emotional and-and petty and shit...but Arsenal couldn't quite let it go. Oliver hadn't even cared enough to keep looking for him, had presumed him dead.

He _wasn't_ dead, and that was a colossal mistake to make.

Red said, breaking his chain of thought, “Okay. Let's get your pills. Do you need any support to get back?”

He was obviously trying to avoid saying 'help' but it didn't work. Arsenal scowled, and pushed himself onto his feet. His knees felt like they might give under him, like he might crumble to the floor, but he stubbornly walked to the door. “I got it, thanks.”

As in, 'No thanks, don't fucking act like I'm an invalid.'

Red let out a sigh, and they headed down the hallway to Arsenal's room.

They didn't run into anyone on the way there, and Arsenal used a bit of water from the bottle at his bedside to take his dose. The bottle had been left out for him, and the pills clacked against each other and the plastic bottle as he moved them.

There were a lot of them.

He put the bottle back, and tried to decide what to do next.

Red was watching him, and said, a bit more softly than normal, “Do you want to spar? We can do some light training, if you want.”

“Don't take that tone with me,” Arsenal found himself saying grouchily. But at the maybe-slightly-hurt expression on Red's face, he kind of relented. “...yeah. Yeah, I want to train. Don't want to talk to any of _them_ , though.”

Red nodded. He sent a message to Nightwing, and they headed for the gym.

Arsenal only caught sight of Cassie at one point, and her blue eyes met his for a moment, before she seemed to sense she wasn't wanted and ducked away.

He felt a sort of redness in his cheeks, a heat, at seeing her. She obviously didn't see him as an equal anymore, if anyone ever had. Well, perhaps they had, but they definitely didn't now.

The churning in his stomach was easily ignored as they made it into the gym. He could feel his pulse seem to pick up in anticipation, a sort of happy feeling making its way into his brain.

This was what he liked doing. Fighting. Nothing made him feel more alive.

He would rather hurt and fight than be fine and not fight.

“Okay. Let's see what you got, Roy,” Red said simply, taking defensive stance in the sparring area.

Arsenal already recognized that Red was going to go easy on him—somewhat, at least. He would probably do his best not to let on. So, naturally, he went in with an attempted headbutt to his solar plexus, catching him off guard and actually him back a couple feet. He grinned at his clone. “What I got's good enough for you.”

Despite a bit of wheezing, he could see Red smile just a little. He said, “All right, fine. Let's do this, then.”

Arsenal had come out of the ice ready to fight. There was no way he wasn't ready now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess Arsenal gets a little bit of happy right now? But next chapter...not so much.
> 
> I love the whole 'fighting high' thing, so I surmise that he would too. :)
> 
> Also, I apparently had a stress/panic breakdown thing or some shit...? But yeah. So, my body's shaking and shit and my chest hurts and all this shit...but I can still write, I guess? Hope you like it!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arsenal's spar with Red Arrow takes a definite nosedive.

Arsenal was a bit hot, but not like before, and he was tougher than that. He was sweating slightly, very slightly, and he was still adjusting to his arm—or lack thereof. He hadn't had to go long without it when he'd first...emerged, though he felt he'd adjusted rather admirably when going toe to toe with Luthor and Mercy.

It was simply harder to block and strike without a fourth option, unlike Red, but he just had to move faster, had to respond quicker—put himself in positions where his right side was not opened up to attack.

Just had to move quickly—and roll with the punches. At first, Red was holding back a lot—but the second he'd stopped about a millimeter before his target, Arsenal had growled and gone for his crotch. Yeah, he hadn't hit, but it was enough to make Red try harder and nail his shoulder, sending him staggering back.

The pain was welcome, honestly. There was a certain amount of relief in having agreed to the pain, in having a say in having it—if he demanded that Red stop, he would, and that was very comforting to think, even as he felt sparks of white pain through his shoulder.

It was like being normal again. It was like things were all right.

A block, pushing Red's fist away from his face, and then following up with a double kick to the stomach—it didn't hurt Red as much as he would have liked, but he did catch the grunt on the second snap kick. It made him smile—not big, but he was definitely smiling.

Red ruthlessly knocked his good (only) arm out of range, and then slammed into his chest with a one two punch. Arsenal hit the floor, but rolled back into a standing position, wobbling only a tiny bit. Yeah, balance was a bit different missing an arm (or when you've grown used to a different arm, he supposed), but he could do it. He was fucking born for this.

It was about when Red had swung a foot at his head, and Arsenal had been about to deflect it, that a huge, horrified gasp, caught his attention, and for just that millisecond, he saw—Cassie, blonde hair, shocked blue eyes--

Then pain. Black, white, crackling—nothing.

He could see red behind his eyelids. He slowly blinked them open, tasting blood in his mouth—probing revealed that he'd bit his tongue. Stupid fucking tongue.

“Roy.” He heard his/the-clone's voice, and he blinked up at him.

Up, because he was on the floor, a sprawl of limbs and weak body in sweat clothes. He stared a moment, and opened his mouth to speak—a spasm of pain went through his head. “Fuck,” he managed.

“How many fingers?” Red asked, holding up a clear three.

Cassie was leaning over Red—Red was kneeling in front of him, frown on his face. Her face, however, was unguarded concern. “Oh my god, do you think--”

“There are fucking three, I'm fine!” Arsenal snapped, already trying to get up. Red put a hand on his shoulder, sort of keeping him down. 

“Come on, give it a moment. You blacked out there—sorry.”

Arsenal glared at Cassie instead. Her stupid fault—why the fuck would she freak out like that? He wasn't in danger! He wasn't weak, and he would have deflected it just fine had it not been _her_ who gasped like that--

No, wait. It did not have anything to do with her—and neither did the heat in his cheeks and nowhere else.

“Shut the fuck up. I'm fine,” Arsenal insisted, though when he forced himself to sitting position, his head swam like a duck pond in a hurricane. When he came out of the dizzy moment, he could feel Red's hands keeping him upright, and pushing his head more towards his knees.

“Do you think he has a concussion?” Cassie asked, voice a sweet, concerned tone that sounded just too...too normal. Too much like she truly cared about Arsenal as a person and not as her weird pillow baby to take care of.

“No,” Arsenal growled, while Red responded,

“Probably.”

Cassie leaned down to Arsenal's level, sinking into a sort of closed-knee squat. But her eyes weren't on him; they were on Red, in a glare. “What are you thinking? You shouldn't have been fighting him! He's not nearly ready for that, look what happened--!”

“Hey, I can fight if I want to!” Arsenal snapped, glaring at her. “And it was your fault, I was fine until you came in here and acted like I was about to be murdered!”

Cassie blanched a little, but then seemed to ignore him, focusing back on Red. “Come on. Did you really need to kick his head? Isn't he hurt enough?”

Almost without thinking, Arsenal drew his legs together, bringing his knees to where his forehead was drooping. Fuck Cassie. Fuck her with a—a—a pitchfork or something, he wasn't sure. His cheeks were blazing now, and he glared at his knees. “Fuck you,” he muttered quietly.

Red spoke up now. “He's not a fragile doll or something, Cassie. Don't treat him like that.” His voice was sharp, accusing, almost like Arsenal's but with more maturity.

Cassie flushed red, but held firm. “I'm not—not treating him like a _doll_ or something, but—come on, he _is_ injured! He got hurt again because you were fighting him like he's at full-strength or something--”

Arsenal curled tighter. He almost didn't know how to treat Cassie, how to respond to her misplaced, misinformed attempt at kindness or whatever. He _wasn't_ helpless, fuck her.

Red said, rather sharply, “Cassie. Stop. Just go; I'll take him to the infirmary, but you need to stop. Now.”

Cassie looked a bit startled. She stared a moment, like her tongue was caught, but then she said, as she rose, “I'm telling Nightwing. This's—it's really reckless, and like, maybe that's okay if you're superstrong or invulnerable or whatever, but, seriously—he's just human, and so're you.”

Arsenal's fingers dug into his opposite leg. He hated her in that moment, but at the same time—wanted her to like him, to not do this to him, to respect him. Maybe team up, maybe plant another kiss on his cheek—he didn't know. He didn't get it, damnit.

“Cassie--!” Red had started, but she flew out of the area, fast. He cursed to himself, then got Arsenal to his feet, supporting him. He sighed. “Come on, kid. We'd better get you to the infirmary—just to be sure, okay? I'll make sure there's nothing more than a check for a concussion. I promise. No needles or other shit.”

Arsenal could trust Red. He knew that much, and so, he could brave a medical place with him there. After all, he had rescued him before, at great risk—he wouldn't let them just undo his work, just stick him full of needles and—and--

Just stop thinking about it. He sucked in a breath, and leaned on Red as they headed to the infirmary.

It was a slowish, quiet trip. Red's mouth was firm, tight, a bit angry. He could tell by the way he was staring ahead that he was thinking angry thoughts.

Arsenal just focused on not fearing the infirmary. It was fine. He would be fine. It was just a check for a concussion, after all, and that was hardly invasive. Red would not let anything else happen, and he certainly hadn't been hit hard enough for anything else to be necessary.

Red would be there. He would be fine.

They entered it, and Red got him settled on the bed. He gripped the cheap sheets tightly, feeling almost like pliable paper between his fingers. It smelled like antiseptic and too clean sheets in here. He wanted to leave, but he was fine.

The doctor on duty bustled in, eyeing Arsenal. “What's happened to him now?”

“Just what I think is a concussion. He hit his head,” Red said, conveniently leaving out the part where he hit him. Arsenal wasn't quite putting together why.

He still felt like that was what should be done, though.

She sighed, shining a light in his eyes. “Definitely a concussion,” she concluded. “Tell me your name.”

“Arsenal,” Arsenal responded.

She sighed. “Your real name. I know your identity already.”

His eyes flickered over to Red, but then he said, firmly, “My name is Arsenal. His name is Roy.”

Red seemed to start a little at that, but the doctor gave a quiet 'humph.' “Fine,” she said, “You seem aware, at least. Tell me your date of birth.”

Arsenal spat it out, frowning deeply at her. He wanted to bite her, sort of. Wanted to get her fingers away from his head as she felt it, examining where the hit had occurred. “Well? Are you done?”

The doctor gave him a cool look. “Calm down, Arsenal. I have to finish checking.”

Red was tense, on standby. He watched like he would jump in at any moment, which soothed Arsenal just a bit.

Arsenal was chewing on his lip a bit, but he was fine, he reminded himself, he was all right. Just a bit more, and he would get to leave. Maybe go to bed, maybe eat...something. With Red, hopefully, but as long as he got out again, he would be fine alone.

He didn't really want to be alone, per se, but yeah. It would be preferable to being trapped here.

“Roy!” Nightwing's tone clearly meant Red. He stormed into the infirmary, snapping at his friend. “You hit Roy hard enough to knock him out? What were you thinking?!”

“We were just sparring. He's fine,” Red responded, frowning at Nightwing.

“Actually, I may need to do a scan,” the doctor said, “Just to be sure.”

A sweat seemed to break out on Arsenal's skin, and he almost without thinking about it looked to Red, a thought going through his head frantically like 'You promised!'

“Is it really necessary? He's fine,” Red insisted, stepping closer—but Nightwing stepped between the doctor and Red, making Arsenal's heart rate climb.

“Roy. You need to back off. You don't have a clear perspective on this—you're biased.” Nightwing was firmly standing in his way, and goddamnit, how could Red protect him if Nightwing was stopping him--?

The doctor said, “We need to get you in the--”

_No, no no_ \-- Arsenal could already imagine the claustrophobic imaging machine, the loud noises, the head-restraint-- “No! Leave me alone, I won't, I won't, Red--!”

He could hear Red hit against Nightwing, maybe not quite willing to fight Nightwing, but perhaps hoping that Nightwing would simply fold. “Nightwing--” Red snapped, practically growled.

“No, Roy. Cassie told me what happened—you're shipping out. You're more of a detriment than a help at this point, and you need to--”

The rest was drowned out by a sort of rising, dizzy banging, crashing noise in Arsenal's skull. No. No, Red could not be leaving, he was the only fucking one he trusted, the only one who understand and gave a fuck and he _could not leave_ \--

Hands on his arms (what remained of the one) made him react like he'd been burned, twisting out of the grasp and throwing himself across the bed, crying out, “No! Leave me alone!”

It was like being trapped again—he could feel his lungs constrict, his chest cave in with panic. A figure pulled him from where he was trying to get to—away. He blearily saw it was Superboy, who'd apparently come in to back Nightwing up.

He thrashed, started screaming at that.

He thought he could hear Red's harsh tones in the background, but panic was producing crackling in his ears, Superboy's gentle but too tight grip dragging him into laying down.

It was happening again. It was happening again. He was going to be trapped, he was going to die here—or worse, lose his life.

He screamed, and felt a needle sink into his arm, which brought on tears, sobbing screams until he was forced to quiet down by the obvious sedative.

His tongue was heavy, his mind like a thick pillow, as he was carried over to the machine. Click, and the head restraint was on and there was nothing he could do about it.

He fell out of reality, consciousness, to the whirr of the machine.

_This couldn't be happening again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I love writing this story. :D I hope y'all are enjoying it too!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arsenal finally gets some relief from constant stress and fear. Black Canary is not pleased at all with how things have gone down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is an almost interlude chapter, I guess? Not so whump ish.

Arsenal woke up in a fog.

He could hear before he could see, voices that sounded phantom but not frightening far away. Like listening to someone else watch a horror movie. The voices sounded familiar, and as his cotton-filled head tried to clear, let him open his eyes and look, he thought he could place one.

“…unacceptable. If I couldn’t be reached—“

Dinah. Black Canary.

“You’ve said it a lot now, Canary…”

Nightwing. Sounded very tired.

“And I’ll keep saying it until all of you understand how to respond to a traumatized kid!”

Still Canary.

“Injuries come before mental—“

Batman. Cut off.

“Oh, really? More than a week later, you can somehow justify still treating this like a physical emergency with no regard for the psychological damage?”

Canary was pissed off. His foggy brain said there was a good reason for that.

“I didn’t make the decision.”

Batman’s voice was gruff.

“Yes, but you’re trying to defend it. You and I both know the black and white thinkers should not be in charge of a nuanced situation like—“

Canary’s rant of sorts was cut off by Nightwing.

“I think he’s awake.”

And Arsenal was indeed. His eyes slowly peeled open, and he could see, through bleary, TV-like vision, that the three he’d heard were indeed sitting there. Black Canary looked angry, Nightwing looked tired, and Batman looked kind of stoic. Stiff upper lip.

Arsenal was slowly becoming aware that he _hurt_. His head throbbed, his limbs felt weak and rubbery, and his tongue felt swollen and sticky.

Black Canary’s eyes met his, already forgetting the other two. Her blue eyes were soft, kind of warm. “Hi, Roy. How are you feeling?”

“Arse—“ His tongue seemed to stick, to throb. But she got it, a slightly sad look going through her eyes.

“Arsenal, I’m sorry. Are you feeling okay?”

No. He was decidedly not feeling okay. He needed Red, water, a warm blanket, open space, missing parts back, he needed—needed—

“Hey, how about some water? You look thirsty,” Dinah said softly, bringing him a cup. She used the remote control to force him up to sitting agonizingly slow, and then handed him the paper cup like it held gold.

He drank it, the water seeming to wash some of the coppery sleep taste from his mouth. It was slightly cold, almost painfully so, which was stupid as hell. He almost coughed, but held it in because it felt like that would hurt a lot.

He put down the cup when it was empty.

“A little bit better?” Dinah asked.

He blinked hard as a yes.

His tongue still felt big, painful, heavy. He wanted to talk, but it fucking hurt and was so clumsy.

He vaguely recalled biting it. And getting hit in the head by Red. And being dragged here to be checked out, only to be forcibly sedated to be treated.

His eyes widened at that, cobwebs starting to clear, and he tried to get out of the bed. He could see Nightwing and Batman kind of start, and they were going to hold him down, strap him in, and he couldn’t do that, he’d fight them—

But Dinah took his arm, was actually supporting him, helping him get out of the bed. “How about a chair? Will that work better?”

He blinked hard, and partially cause he thought he might cry. He could see both of the male heroes sink back into their seats from where they’d been slightly alert. Dinah supported his shaking steps, until he was seated in one of the bedside chairs—the furthest away from the Bats.

His head still throbbed, but like hell he was waiting around in a hospital bed for them to fuck him up more.

He felt somehow more at ease, a little like having a grasp on the situation. A hold. Not a wild freefall.

Canary was looking at him again, sitting down next to him. “Arsenal, I’m very sorry for how you’ve been treated. It’s not going to continue that way.”

He wasn’t totally sure he could trust her on that, but Canary was certainly the most trustworthy person in the room, so he accepted it. And it was a relief, like cold water trickling down on a too warm head. He might be safe. Ish. For once.

He managed, “Red…please.”

Canary nodded in understanding. “You want to see Red Arrow. Nightwing, where is Red Arrow?”

“He’s cooling off somewhere else. He was too close to this and got too biased—“ Nightwing was cut off by Canary.

“So, in other words, he wouldn’t let you further traumatize Arsenal, so you made him leave.” She said it like she’d heard exactly what happened. And somehow, that made Arsenal even more relieved. She got it. She understood.

She wasn’t going to torment him.

“I’ll call him,” Nightwing said with a sigh. “But he did need treatment for his concussion, and Red Arrow unnecessarily heightened the situation.”

Arsenal realized he was baring his teeth, and quickly stopped.

If Canary thought he was crazy, then he wouldn’t see Red or get out.

But Nightwing stepped out, getting on some sort of communication device, and Canary was still here, looking at him with a mix of compassion and anger. He didn’t think the anger was directed at him.

She looked to him again, saying, “If Nightwing can’t reach Red Arrow, I’ll call. You should have people you trust around you, and I know you don’t trust many people.”

Understatement of the year.

Arsenal almost laughed at that. 

Nightwing came back in with a sigh. “He’s on his way.” His face said that Red had cussed him out too or something.

Arsenal was pretty fucking relieved at that, nearly slumping a little in his seat. 

Canary smiled at him. It was a slightly pained smile. “Would you like to go to your room?” When Nightwing started to voice a protest, she said, “I’ll stay with him. I know his injuries require some monitoring.”

Arsenal blinked hard again. And so, she let him support himself on her arm as he used his rubbery noodle legs to stagger towards his room. She was kinda warm, in that way that felt like relief and not like someone invading your space.

They made it back and Arsenal gratefully settled on the bed. He didn’t feel entirely small or helpless, but he was tired and it was soft and nice. And safe. Much safer than a hospital bed. He glanced to Canary, but she settled in the chair, offering him a nod.

“You do what you need to. If you need me, let me know. I’ll read.” And she took out an e-reader and set to that after he gave a hard blink back.

Yes. You read. I’ll do what I need.

And what he needed was to curl in his own bed, his head on the wonderfully chill pillow, his hand grasping the blanket, and to feel like he could sleep, if he wanted to, in safety. He wasn’t going to, but he felt weirdly safe.

Probably because he knew Canary would take no shit.

She wouldn’t let them just drag him off, he knew that. She would do _something_.

He drifted off before he really realized.

\--

Red’s voice alerted him awake instantly, a rush of relief and maybe happiness in his veins. He pushed himself to sitting and spotted Red standing near Canary, talking to her.

Red’s attention turned to him, a grim half smile on his face. “Hey. How are you doing?”

Arsenal managed a slurred, “Not shitty.”

His tongue didn’t hurt as much right now. And Red let out a small snort of amusement, and walked towards him. “You do look a little less shitty.”

Arsenal sort of lopsidedly smiled at that, just glad for him to be here. To be honest and real and not about to hurt him. “So do you.”

Canary had the slightest ‘You can tell he’s your clone’ look on her face, but she seemed to clear it quickly, saying, “I want you to know I would like to begin counseling sessions with you. In the meantime, I’m going to stick around to make sure nothing more like this happens. Okay? Is that all right with you?”

Well, if he got a choice. He did seem to have a choice here. And Canary was good. Wasn’t going to force him to do shit. “Yeah.”

She seemed relieved at that. 

Red nodded. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be setting some people straight on shit, but you can call me.” He tossed him a communicator.

Arsenal caught it. “Okay.”

Canary sank back into her reading.

And Arsenal found himself surprisingly hopeful. Surprisingly safe and secure feeling. He hadn’t felt that way in years, not even prior to being caught and frozen. Being Speedy was hardly a secure upbringing.

But this felt…a bit like home. Like the home he’d had before Oliver Queen.

And he curled up again, but a little more sprawled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's shorter, but I was excited to update. I haven't in a long time. Inspiration is a fickle thing.
> 
> I figure Black Canary was away on a mission. And it was the wrong people at the wrong time in charge.
> 
> Which is a thing, as I know all too well. :P


End file.
